


When the Hound Came Home

by tm_writes



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fixing what I didn’t like, Fluff and Smut, Season 8 Rewrite, all the feels, canon AU, happy ever after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 09:22:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 75,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20543825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tm_writes/pseuds/tm_writes
Summary: Sandor Clegane survives the encounter with his brother and now must marry Sansa Stark or face the wrath of the Dragon Queen. He also must bring Jaime Lannister with him North.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning- very liberal use of swear words, this is Sandor we are dealing with. And talk of past abuse. Sansa is 22, Sandor is 40

Sandor grunted in pain as fire and destruction rained down around him. Overhead he heard the awful shriek and the whoosh of the dragon as the mad Queen flew by, burning everything and everyone in sight. That fucking dragon. _Did his fire ever end?_ Sandor thought, each breath more painful than the last. He was sitting atop a crumbling tower, surrounded by death and ash, and not for the first time wondered why he’d ever left Winterfell. And her. Gods, his little bird. _How dumb of a dog was he to leave the only woman who’d ever claim to love him for this fucking shit?_

Sandor glanced around him and saw the former Queen’s body down a few steps. The moment Cersei had tried to sneak past him, it had been as easy as cutting through butter to drive his sword through her body. He didn’t give a fuck about Cersei fucking Lannister. She’d been the architect of so much hurt for the Starks and for Sansa. It was the least he could do. He knew both Arya and Sansa would be pleased that he had killed her, even though Sansa had begged him not to come here, not to leave her.

_Stupid fucking dog_, he berated himself, _leaving her warmth and her love to come here_. _For what? Death? Pain? Vengeance?_

Bitterness flowed over him. The wall where he’d finally pushed his cunt of a brother to his death started to crumble even more, and Sandor wondered briefly if he would meet such an ignominious end to be crushed to death when the entire tower collapsed. He tried to laugh, but his broken ribs prevented that and he groaned in pain.

He reached a tired hand up to probe his face. Gregor had done his best to squeeze his fucking eyes out of his head and Sandor had screamed when he’d done that. His brother had stolen enough from him. He wouldn’t take anymore. Sandor had no idea where the last bit of strength he’d found had come from. He’d been losing consciousness, sure that his end was near when he’d spotted a beam of lumber. Twisting out of Gregor’s hold, Sandor grabbed the wood and drove it into his brother until the monster stumbled through the broken wall and tumbled to his death into the raging fire below.

He must have passed out, because the next thing Sandor knew, everything was eerily quiet. There was no more dragon and no more screams. And he wasn’t buried beneath the Red Keep. Ash and darkness rained down on him, and he was helpless to brush it away. He was in the exact same position as when he had collapsed earlier, and ash turned his face and beard grey. A dead Queen at his feet and a broken body. He was so weary he didn’t know if he’d make it ten steps.

He grunted and thought about Winterfell. Of long red hair, and bright blue eyes. And a little bird that had somehow welcomed him into her bed. Him, a scarred and useless old dog, was what she’d wanted that night that they had come together at the feast for the living after they had defeated the Night King. She’d told him he could stay there and be her master at arms and raise their children, together. That he didn’t need to do this, didn’t need to seek his brother out, didn’t need his revenge. Her eyes had been pools of blue hurt when she asked why she wasn’t enough for him. He had no answer. She was everything but like a fool, he’d left her. He’d left the Queen in the North for this fucking shit. To die alone in a place that he hated.

He’d never expected to survive, and now he didn’t know where the fuck he’d go. What he would do now? Would she even take him back after he’d slept her and left her? He’d tried hard not to spill in her when he’d been inside her warm heat, but she felt too good, the best thing he’d ever had in his entire life. It had been too long since he’d had a woman, even a whore, and Sansa Stark was the furthest thing from a whore he’d ever had. She was the woman who he had been in love with for years and being in her was even sweeter than the killing that he so loved once upon a time.

She’d promised him she’d take some moon tea, but he’d seem a gleam in her eyes. She wanted a baby, and since she’d worked up the courage to take another man into her bed, he suspected that if she did have a pup in her belly, she wouldn’t be getting rid of it. He hadn’t let himself think about that on the ride south. But he did now as he sat on the edge of destruction and ruin. He knew then that he would crawl back North to her, to make sure that if she did have his pup in her that she would have him. However, she wanted. He wouldn’t leave her to raise his bastard alone, not when he’d somehow survived this horror. His name might not be much, but he wouldn’t let his child suffer the dishonour of being born on the wrong side of the sheets. Not if he could help it. Then darkness took him over again.

The next time he awoke, the day had broken, and he felt some of his strength return. Struggling to his feet, he glanced at the dead Queen. She might be his only ticket to securing his passage North. Gods knew that silver-haired bitch had surely turned to madness if the state of the Capital was anything to go by. He knew that if he took her Cersei’s body, she just might yet let him live. He knew she had a burning hatred for the Lannister Queen. Gathering the slim woman in his arms, Sandor gingerly picked his way through the broken rubble, his body protesting every step. It was slow going, and it felt like hours before he made it to the streets below, fearful that at any moment crumbling rock might take him down.

The stench of burning and charred bodies was overwhelming, and he gagged and tried not to vomit what little was left in his stomach. Sandor had a deep-seeded hatred for fire for very good reasons, but seeing roasted flesh like this, he felt no shame at his nausea. He knew no man could handle seeing such sights. He had to stop more than he was happy with, his strength all but gone. Each time he dropped to his knees he wondered if he would get up again.

When he sat there, he wondered how Sansa’s cousin would deal with all this chaos. Sansa had told him about her cousin’s true parentage, and Sandor had listened as Jon Snow, or whatever his fucking name was, had stoically stood by his silver-haired Queen. Sansa had pleaded with him and warned him. She hadn’t trusted the Dragon Queen since the moment she stepped into Winterfell. She had been right. Looking at the sheer number of dead, of innocents, of children burned beyond recognition, Sandor wondered just how the pretty King in the North would justify all this death. Even the Lannister’s had never unleashed such fucking destruction on the people.

Sandor was nothing if not determined, and the driving need to get back to Sansa drove him forward. He eventually walked through the broken front gates of Kings Landing; Cersei’s body still cradled in his massive arms.

It was Tyrion and Davos that spotted him first, and the dwarf and smuggler ran up to him.

“Clegane!” Tyrion cried and then looked at the body in his arms. Sandor saw the tears come to the dwarf’s eyes, but he felt nothing for the littlest lion. He just grunted at the man and asked where she was.

Tyrion stumbled and then indicated a large tent that had been set up.

“Clegane, you’re hurt,” Davos said, and Sandor would have waived him away if he had a free arm. Nothing else mattered but securing his freedom. Nothing else mattered now but getting back to her.

He grunted and kept walking.

“She has my brother prisoner, Clegane,” Tyrion pleaded, his low voice desperate. Sandor stopped and turned to him. Tyrion swallowed hard. “If there is anyway….” The dwarf trailed off. Sandor sighed. This was why he preferred to be alone. When you were friends with people, in alliances with people, they expected shit from you.

Sandor just gave him a look and kept walking. He approached the large tent and the two Unsullied guards looked at him before they saw whom he carried. Moving aside, Sandor entered, Tyrion and Davos at his heals. Inside the tent stood the silver-haired Queen. She turned as he approached, and he saw her eyebrows raise and a look of glee on her face when she spotted whom he carried in his arms.

“Ser Clegane,” she almost purred and he swore he saw the madness swirl in those purple eyes. He preferred the blue of Sansa’s. “I see you are a most loyal subject of House Targaryen.” He suppressed a shudder and stumbled forward.

Sandor finally dropped Cersei’s body before her, and Dany almost preened in glee. His body was glad to be done with his burden.

“Thought you’d want to see for yourself. The mountain and her hand are dead as well,” he told her.

She clapped her hands and approached him, running her small hands down his massive chest. Sandor tried not to react, not to cringe being this close to someone that had just burned an entire city to the ground. All he wanted was a chance to go North and be with Sansa. To keep her and the people she loved so fucking much, safe. Even if she hated him, how owed her that much. He’d watch over her until he was old and useless if he could just escape the south.

“And what type of reward do you seek, Clegane?” Dany asked him, curious. “Perhaps you would like a castle? I’ve heard there are several available.” When he didn’t react, she frowned slight. “Or would you like to stay and become part of my Queensguard? I heard you were very effective for a time when you did the same for Joffrey.”

Sandor shuffled his feet and looked down, before he raised his eyes to meet her. “Just want to go North, Your Grace,” he told her and saw her eyes narrow. “Made a promise to keep someone safe.”

Sandor watched as the Dragon Queen’s face tightened into a hard mask of rage and perhaps jealousy. Everyone knew how much Sansa was loved in the North, and everyone knew how much this Queen was feared.

Dany scoffed. “Protection? Is that all Clegane?”

  
Sandor said nothing and met her gaze. He was in very dangerous territory now, he knew. He risked a look at Jon Snow, or whatever the fuck his name was now. The man’s eyes were pleading with him, begging him to not fuck this up.

“Are you loyal to me, Clegane?” Dany asked and Sandor nodded to her. He truly didn’t give a fuck who sat on the throne, or if there even was one. But he knew he needed to placate her now. He’d say anything to get out of here with his head still attached to his body.

“And if I ordered you to Winterfell, to marry Sansa Stark, to ensure the North’s loyalty to me, what would you say to that, Ser Clegane?” Dany’s voice was soft and deadly in the tent. No one dared say a word. No one protested. Everything hung on Sandor’s answer.

Sandor swallowed hell. _Seven fucking hells, Sansa was going to fucking kill him_, he thought. He knew what she’d been through. Even when she’d begged him to stay, there had been no talk of marriage. She’d offered him her body, her love and the chance for children. But she’d never offered marriage, and he knew she was still traumatized from her previous one to Ramsey Bolton. He prayed to gods that he didn’t believe in that she would understand, that he could make her see that it was the only way to keep her safe, to keep the North safe, to keep her from the Dragon Queen’s wrath.

“I’d say I’d do it, Your Grace,” Sandor said and swallowed hard. Sandor saw Jon’s shoulders slump in relief.

“Good. Then it is settled. Ser Clegane, you will go North, to Winterfell and marry Sansa Stark. Convince you wife, Ser Clegane, that it is in the North’s best interest to bend the knee to House Targaryen,” Dany said her voice hard and unyielding, and Sandor felt a cold chill run down his spine.

“Aye Your Grace,” he said, hating himself and hoping that Sansa would forgive him. He cleared his throat and Dany’s eyes met his.

“Yes?” she asked, already done with him.

“It’s about the Kingslayer,” he mumbled, cursing Tyrion and Sansa and Brienne and all these fuckers he’d someone come to care about.

“He was caught trying to infiltrate my camp, Ser Clegane,” she said hotly, anger and fury in her voice. “He is a traitor.”

“Perhaps not,” Tyrion said, and she whipped her angry purple eyes to him. “Perhaps he was coming to kill the Queen himself,” Tyrion said, and Dany scoffed.

She glanced to her guard. “Bring him here,” she commanded, and everyone held their breath until Jaime Lannister was dragged into the tent.

His eyes fell on Cersei and he swallowed down the tears and grief he felt. He’d watched, helpless and bound as the city burned. He’d killed a king years ago, destroyed his reputation to protect half a million souls, and now that king’s daughter had done the unthinkable. He was sick to his stomach with what had happened. He’d heard the screams, seen some of the carnage, and smelled the charred flesh. It was his nightmare come to life. And it was all her fault. His eyes fell on the woman he hated more than any other.

“Jaime Lannister tell us why you came to Kings Landing,” Dany’s voice asked him, cold and unforgiving. He’d heard what her and her beast had done to Varys and he’d seen the destruction the black dragon could unleash with a single command from her lips. How could any of them live with themselves? Jaime thought. He wanted to look to Tyrion and Jon and ask if this is what they had in mind when they threw their lot in with her. They knew that the Targaryens were mad. She had just proven it beyond a shadow of a doubt. But he knew how this game was played, and he had one shot at his freedom.

He swallowed hard. “To kill the Queen,” he told her and looked her straight in the eyes, his face betraying none of the emotion he felt at seeing his twin dead at his feet. There would be time to mourn and grieve in private if he survived this. He felt as if he’d been ripped in two, seeing Cersei dead at his feet.

Dany met his gaze and must have seen enough to believe him.

“Is it your wish to return North, Ser Jaime? Or perhaps you want to go to your family seat at Casterly Rock?” she said. “I have need of allies to take back their family castles and kingdoms. Loyal allies that have pledged to House Targaryen.”

Jaime swallowed hard. He was reeling and had no idea where he wanted to go or what he would do. He had been happy in the month he’d spent in Winterfell, sleeping beside Brienne, loving her and making her laugh, training in the yard. He knew he’d broken her heart when he’d rode away, but all he knew was that he had to at least try to save Cersei one last time. Not because he wanted to be with her, not like that. But because she was a part of him. And he had failed.

“If that is what Your Grace commands,” he said and watched her eyes flick over those in the room.

“Is there a woman there, someone perhaps that has caught your eye, Ser Jaime? Someone who would make an appropriate wife for you?” Dany asked, already knowing the answer. She had seen her hand and his brother laugh and drink and jape with the large woman in the hall at Winterfell. Brienne of Tarth was a woman of noble blood. Marrying her and Jaime and sending them to the Rock would give Dany yet another kingdom.

Jaime swallowed hard again and nodded. He wondered what Brienne would do to him if he came slinking back to Winterfell, telling her they must marry and rule over the Westerlands. He almost laughed at thinking what his father would think of such a marriage. Still, Brienne was a trueborn lady, and Jaime could not stomach the thought of her with that red-haired wilding. Or the thought that he might have broken her beyond repair. Despite his need to save Cersei, his heart now belonged to her. He’d been true when he’d told her he was hateful; but she’d forgiven him once before and perhaps she would do so again.

“With your blessing, I would marry Brienne of Tarth, Your Grace, and wherever you see fit for us to be, that will be where we will go,” Jaime said and almost saw Tyrion’s shoulders collapse in visible relief.

Dany eyed the two men standing before he. Ser Sandor Clegane had more than proven himself, Cersei’s dead body seeing to that. And Dany thought if there was one man that could make Sansa Stark come to heel it would be him. Jaime Lannister was another problem. But one that would be neatly solved if his words were true. Both would be powerful allies as she rebuilt her kingdom from the ashes she had just created. And the two men before her offered her a chance to have two of the largest Kingdoms come to heal immediately.

Both men exchanged nervous glances. They trusted the silver haired bitch as far as Arya Stark could throw Sandor Clegane. She was fucking mad, and they only could hope that Jon Snow could somehow find a way to calm the rage in her or kill her. Neither one of them would ever be close enough to do so. The most they could hope for was a chance to escape back north, to the women they had loved and left. They were both such utter bastards.

She narrowed her eyes. “My dragon can have me North in hours,” she told them. “Do not betray me, or I will burn every village, every home, every castle from here to the fallen wall, down.” Everyone in the room knew it was not an idle threat. She had more than proven her willingness to kill indiscriminately. Then she turned, dismissing both men.

Sandor’s weary body finally relaxed, and he grabbed Jaime before the stupid cunt could undo all of what they had just accomplished. He saw the man look brokenly to his sister’s body, but he pulled him from the tent without remorse. They didn’t need Jaime Lannister to screw this up. Davos, Tyrion and Jon followed.

It took all Sandor’s efforts not to collapse once he was outside the Queen’s tent, and Ser Davos led him to some healers, where food and medicine was shoved towards him. He gratefully gulped down a skin of wine, before wiping his tired face with the back of his hand. He looked up to see Jon Snow’s dark, troubled eyes focused on him.

“You know what her previous husbands have done to her,” he stated, and Sandor nodded.

_Know_? He’d fucking seen the marks on her body, the scars left by those cunts. He’d run his tongue and lips over them, cursing himself for hiding in the Quiet Isle while Ramsey fucking Bolton carved her up like she was a willow tree.

“You have nothing to worry about, Jon Snow,” he told the small man. “I’ll not hurt her. I’ll never hurt her.” Jon nodded then his mouth tightened. “You’ve lain with her,” he stated, and Sandor nodded.

“Didn’t fucking force myself on her, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he told him, angry that her cousin would think that of him. He wasn’t that man. He was a lot of things, but that was one thing he wasn’t.

Jon sighed and rubbed a weary hand over his face and sat beside the huge man. He lowered his voice.

“She told me not to trust the Dragon Queen. She told me to press my claim. Arya claimed she was the smartest person she knew, and everything she said was right,” the words spilled quick and low from Jon’s mouth as Sandor watched. Then Jon met his eyes, and Sandor saw the sheer exhaustions and devastation there. He didn’t envy the task in front of him. “Everything I’ve done was to protect my family,” he said lowly and urgently and watched as Sandor nodded. “I’m afraid that Dany will come for her next,” he told Sandor and saw the man stiffen. “I’ll do everything I can, but you have to tell Sansa what’s happened here. You have to let her know. And you have to swear to me that you’ll protect her with your life,” Jon said.

Sandor met the man’s gaze and saw the true and deep worry there. “I swear,” he said, and Jon nodded then clasped him on the back.

“When you marry her, take her name. Give her the family she wants.”

Sandor gave the man an odd look and nodded once more, before the pain and exhaustion were too much. Jon saw him fading and rose to his feet. “Safe travels, brother,” and Sandor grunted, unsure if he’d ever see the brooding man again. But he had his blessing to marry his cousin, and that was enough.

Sandor found a bedroll and laid his weary body down. Tomorrow him and Jaime would start the endless journey back North. But this time, he meant to stay. This time, in whatever way Sansa would have him, he would never leave her alone again. And if she didn’t want him in her bed or as her husband, no matter what it did to him, he wouldn’t leave her side. He’d given his word, and he would die to protect her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more swear words and some smut. If not your cup of tea, please don't read.
> 
> Also mention of past abuse.

Sansa thought she would never feel worse than when Ramsey Bolton beat her and raped her and carved into her skin like she was his own personal masterpiece for his sadistic pleasure. But when he’d done those things to her, she’d been able to leave her own mind, to go far away, to pretend she was somewhere else.

Now that the battle with the army of the dead was gone and everyone had left, and she was lost as she wandered the halls of Winterfell. Not that she would show that to anyone. Every person she encountered only saw the Lady of Winterfell and the Queen in the North as they had taken to calling her. The only person she allowed to see her hurt was her sworn shield, and that was because Lady Brienne was just as devastated as she was.

And Ghost. Sansa had known when Jon had left his beloved direwolf with her for her protection that he didn’t think he would survive the battle in Kings Landing. Each night Ghost curled up by her side, and she hugged his massive body to hers as she sobbed and prayed for those who had left. She didn’t think she’d ever felt this alone; not even when she was here with Ramsey as her husband. It was worse to have Arya and Jon back and then gone than before when she believed them to be lost to her. And she didn’t know if her heart would survive the loss of the man, she realized too late that she loved.

Sansa had known the moment Sandor Clegane had come back to Winterfell in Jon and Deanery’s retinue of soldiers, but she’d held off from approaching him. He was impossible to miss, his frame as large and foreboding as ever. She wasn’t scared of him and hadn’t been in so long. But she didn’t want to become attached to him. The way the Jon talked about the army of the dead, she was afraid she wouldn’t survive the deaths of her siblings, let alone a man that had occupied far too many of her thoughts over the years. Besides, she would give Deanery’s Targaryen nothing more to use against her, and she feared what the Dragon Queen would do if she ever learned of Sansa’s feelings for Sandor Clegane. She had spoken truthfully to Jon when she had said she did not trust their new Queen that he had pledged his loyalty too.

Miraculously, her family had all survived the battle with the Night King, and Sansa watched that evening in the great hall as Sandor sat alone, drinking and eating, apart from the different groups. He looked proud when Dany named Arya the hero of Winterfell, and Sansa knew that her little sister would carry that moniker for a long time. As she should. She’d done the impossible, and Sansa still couldn’t believe it. Still, she hesitated to approach him. He’d yet to come to her, and she was nervous about his reaction. Perhaps he hated her. Or maybe he was just indifferent to her presence. She thought that might be worse than anything. She wasn’t his little bird anymore; time and brutal men had seen to her education. She almost laughed at the thought of how scared she’d been of him down in Kings Landing and how she had thought him a monster at that time. She had known true monsters since him. She’d killed true monsters.

And as much as Sansa was scared of intimacy with another man, now that the Night King had been defeated, she desperately wanted a chance to be normal; she wanted a family. She looked around the hall and saw so many touching, laughing and japing. She knew that the Maester would have his work cut out for him brewing moon tea over the coming days and weeks to prevent the babes that were sure to be conceived on this night. They had all come so close to death, and those that lived wanted to feel alive. Including Sansa. For once in her life, she wanted to throw off her mantle of duty and responsibility, and just feel. And there was only one man that she trusted to be that open with. To give her body too. Somehow against all odds, he had ended up in her hall, alive and drinking wine and was studiously avoiding her gaze.

She watched as he spoke harshly to the comely serving girl that sought his attention and literally push her away. That’s when she gathered her courage and made her move. She sat across from him and saw the small twitch of his lips. She could admit to herself that she liked his full beard. It suited him and hid his scars. Not that she cared about that anymore. She had more scars, and uglier ones on her body than he did. But she thought for his sake, he’d be more comfortable the less people could see them. And his beard made him look like a Northman. Sansa liked that as well. In fact, there wasn’t a thing she didn’t like about Sandor Clegane, except perhaps for the fact that he had ignored her since he’d been back in her home.

His large hands were on the table between them, and she startled a bit as he spoke to her, low and harsh in the growl of a voice that only he had. She remembered everything he’d ever said to her in that voice. How he’d keep her safe, bring her home. She’d been a fool not to go with him, despite what she told him now.

She tried not to react when he spoke of how she’d been treated. He needed to see that she was no longer a scared little bird, but a wolf, if she had any chance of convincing him to share her bed. She got her first real grin when she told him how she’d killed Ramsey. It sent a funny jolt through her body and heat to her core. She took a chance then and reached out to grab his hand and stroked over the roughened and calloused skin there. She looked at their joined hands and wondered how someone so strong could be so gentle with her. She knew he would never hurt her. She tried not to take offence when he told her it wasn’t her fucking business that would make him happy. But she thought she might, despite his bark, and she finally screwed up her courage and looked him directly in the eyes.

“I think we could make each other happy. Tonight,” and watched as his eyes widened and then narrowed. He was always looking for the catch. He distrusted everything and thought everyone was out to get him. She sighed and wondered if he would reject her too.

“Not sure what you’re after, little bird,” he said, and her heart fluttered at the familiar name that she’d whispered over and over again in her mind when Ramsey had done horrible things to her. To hear it from his lips again was like a soothing balm over her battered heart. She knew then that he still cared for her, at least a small amount.

She shrugged and allowed a small smile. “Just you,” she told him.

He barked out a laugh and scoffed at her until his eyes narrowed, and he realized she was telling the truth. Sandor always knew when someone was lying to him. And she wasn’t.

Sansa rose then and gave him one last look. “You know where my chambers are,” and then turned and left the Great Hall. He would either find her or he wouldn’t. She’d done as much as she could. She wouldn’t beg and she wouldn’t whore herself out to him. If he wanted her the way she wanted him, he could come and find her. And if he didn’t, he would be one more person she prayed for in the Godswood when he rode away to continue the war against the Cersei Lannister.

Sansa was breathing heavily by the time she arrived back at her chambers. While she knew he would never hurt her, she still didn’t know if she could lay with another man. Although she desperately wanted to feel normal again, she knew she was damaged. Maybe he didn’t really want her. After all, he knew about her past; hell, he’d made a rude comment about it not half an hour ago. What man wanted to take the time to calm a fearful woman when there were better options available?

Sansa berated herself for even approaching him and sighed as she moved about her rooms, banking the fire and turning down her bed. She was the biggest fool in the entire hall, thinking that she could have a man like Sandor want her. She tried not to feel embarrassed at how bold she had been, and how pathetic it was to be rejected when her door opened, and his massive frame filled it.

He took one look at her and she nodded. He slipped in then and shut and barred the door. Sansa thought that action would make her nervous, but a calmness had settled over her. Ramey had always bolted the door, to keep those out who might dare to rescue her. When Sandor did, it felt like he was creating a space just for them, where she knew no hurt or pain would come to her.

“Still don’t know what you fucking want,” he grumbled to her and she arched one elegant eyebrow at him. Surely, he wasn’t that dumb.

He ran a massive hand down his face and scrubbed at his beard. “What I said earlier, about you being broken in rough,” he started and then stopped. He looked…. almost embarrassed at his words.

Sansa let a small smile come to her face. “My response was poorly said as well,” she told him and gestured to a small table where she sunk into a chair. He stood like a tall imposing bear, not moving until he finally lumbered over and dropped his huge frame into the chair.

There was wine on the table and she went to pour him a glass when he shook his head. He’d already had enough, and if she truly wanted him, the last thing he needed was to be pissed out of his damn mind.

Sansa sighed and started to speak before his huge paw reached out and grabbed her again. His skin was warm, and he smelled like a man; pine and soap and sweat. She saw that he was clean and knew he must have had a bath at some point; his beard was neatly trimmed, and his dark hair was tamed. Still, his nails were blunt and dirty with a mixture of blood and dirt beneath them.

“Don’t need to say anything else, little bird,” he told her, knowing that she’d been through hell. Why on earth she thought he’d be the man for her, was beyond him. Looking at their hands he couldn’t imagine two more opposite people.

“I know you won’t hurt me, Sandor,” she said quietly, and he heaved another sigh.

“I don’t know how to be with a woman like you,” he told her honestly. He’d never had a high-born lady. Whores required no finesse, no words of praise, and no small talk.

She smiled a bit sadly at that. “I’m no maiden, Sandor. As you said, I’ve been used hard. By my husband, no less, in the most horrible ways.” She saw his face scowl at that thought, and the anger run through his eyes. She wouldn’t stop him from feeling what he did, even on her behalf. She often still felt the rage and disgust at what Ramsey had done to her. “I’m scarred too,” she told him, her voice dropping and breaking. “It’s possible you won’t want me once you’ve seen what he did to me.”

Sandor thought he couldn’t feel any more rage at the thought of her fucking husband abusing her, but to hear that the cunt had marked her, scarred her, he wanted the man alive so he could torture him to death again and again. Lost in his rage, Sansa grasped his hand and brought him back to the present.

“I just want to know what it feels like. To be with someone who cares for me for once in my life,” she said, and then gave him an uncertain look. “At least, I think you care for me.”

For fuck sakes, he couldn’t stand her chirping anymore. Why she would think he didn’t want her just because she had some scars, or that he wasn’t totally fucking in love with her was beyond him. He pulled his hand away and rubbed his face, feeling the rigid and buckled skin.

“Fuck Sansa, you’re all I’ve thought about for years,” he told her and looked at her face for her response. She blushed and he was undone. Gods, no matter what that cunt had put her through, she was still far too good for the likes of him. And far too innocent. If he had any sense, he’d leave her chambers now before he took her the way he wanted to. She was always going to be too good for him.

“I’m not a good man,” he started to say, and she scoffed before he gave her a look. “I’m not. A good man would have stayed away,” he told her. Then he gave her a serious look. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ve got business in Kings Landing.” He would never lie to her, no matter how much the truth might hurt her. He watched as her face crumpled a bit before she rallied.

“I’m only asking for tonight, Sandor,” she said, and he shook his head. Women like Sansa didn’t want one night. They wanted the wedding, and the babies and the whole fucking fairy-tale.

“I can’t promise I’ll be gentle,” he started again and watched her nod at that. “It’s been too long since I’ve been with a woman.” He startled a bit when he saw a satisfied grin steal over her face. She rose then and stood in front of him and leaned down and pressed a kiss to his lips.

“Just be you,” she told him.

Sandor was lost in her then. He wasn’t a strong enough man to say no, even though he knew he’d rise from her bed tomorrow and ride to his death, sure that Gregor would be waiting for him. If he had any decency he’d walk away, leave her to find a fine lord for a husband. But he’d wanted her for so long and he’d drunk too much wine. She’d worn down his meager resistance, and he had no answer for her needs, as they seemed to match his. And part of his heart ached that she had been used so rough. He knew that it could be good for a woman. Hell, all you had to do was hang around that fucking ginger wilding to hear the man go on and on about baby seals and making a woman wet. Especially with your tongue. Sandor had never done that before, but he wanted to try with her. He hardened when he thought of tasting her down there.

He pulled her to him and threaded his hands through her hair, working the pins loose so it was free and flowing like a red copper fall around them. He pushed his tongue into her mouth and tasted the tart wine on her tongue. When she pulled back her eyes were bright, and her cheeks were flushed. She turned then and gave him the back of her dress and asked him to unlace her.

He had no idea just how vulnerable a position this was for her, until her soft voice said, “I warn you now, it’s not a pretty sight.” Sansa knew this would always be a sore spot for her; how Ramsey had made her ugly, how he had marked her. But she thought if anyone might understand it would be Sandor. She tried not to tense as he undid the laces and stays, his big hands and clumsy fingers fumbling some and ripping at others. Finally, he pushed her dress down and she stood in her small clothes and stockings. He swallowed hard.

“Do you want me to go on?” he asked, voice roughened with desire.

“Yes,” she whispered, and he pulled her shift off her shoulders.

It took every ounce of control he had not to react when her back came into view. It was a testament to the pain she’d endured, a patchwork of needle-thin white scars, bite marks and gouges. The pain she must have felt made him rage, and Sandor saw red. His breathing increased tenfold and he clenched his fists, wanting to find someone, anyone to pound into oblivion at what was done to her.

Sansa shuffled slightly in the quiet room, afraid that her back was too ugly for him to want her. She just started to reach down to pull up her shift when he stayed her hand.

“Don’t,” he grunted, and she stopped. Then he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to one of the most gruesome marks and felt her shudder.

“Little bird?” he asked, asking it a question.

“Keep going,” she instructed him, and he did. He kissed every single mark he could find on her body, licking and lapping at them, praying that she knew how strong she was. Sansa stood there as he cleansed her with his lips and fingers, tears streaming down her eyes. She’d hoped he wouldn’t reject her, but she’d never expected him to heal her.

Eventually, once he’d kissed every mark he could find, he turned her. She was magnificent, and she stood before her, naked and glorious. He didn’t even register the scarring across her chest until she moved a hand to cover herself.

He gently pulled it away and met her eyes. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he told her, and her eyes pooled with unshed tears.

She gestured helplessly to what Ramsey had done to the front of her. Bite marks littered her stomach and chest and it was much the same as her back, and she regretted that Sandor couldn’t have seen her before this had been done to her.

“I wish you had seen me before he did this to me,” she whispered.

“Don’t,” he told her harshly. “None of this takes away from your beauty, Sansa,” he growled to her. He looked up and said, “Can I touch you?” She looked into his eyes and saw the truth there. He thought she was beautiful. Sansa could have sobbed her relief. She also saw the desire there. She remembered that this was Sandor and he would never lie to her. If he said she was beautiful, then she was.

“Yes please,” she whispered, and he groaned as he leaned down to pull a tip into his mouth. She squeaked as he suckled at her and massaged her, cupping her. He feasted on her until she was moaning and writhing on him and her hands came up to pin his dark head to her chest. She looked down to see him there and felt the heat course through her body.

Eventually, he picked her up, and clad only in her stockings, deposited her on the bed. Sansa scrambled up and went to her knees to help him undress. She liked the new doublet that he was wearing and briefly thought of other things she could make him. He was so large that he would always need specialized clothes made for just him. And with him by her side, no one would ever dare hurt her again. Then she ruthlessly pushed that thought aside. One night, that was all he’d promised her. She had him for now.

Together they undressed him, and Sansa tried to not gasp when he stood there clad in only his breeches. His chest was massive, hairy and filled with scars and nicks from a lifetime of battles and fighting. Sansa dug her hands through his chest hair, burrowing her hands deep.

“You’re so hairy,” she said, and he barked out a short laugh.

“Not a pretty lord, little bird,” he told her, making no apologies for his body. He looked down at her hands where were stroking and petting him, buried in his hairy chest and told himself to let her set the pace. Once she’d had her fill, she raised her eyes up at him.

“I like it,” she said and grinned a bit. He was as different from Ramsey than any man could be. And she couldn’t be more grateful.

He cocked his head at her and saw the truth there. He grunted and kept his breeches on. He was hard as nails and wanted nothing more than to sink into her, but he knew she would need a lot more than him taking her fast into her if he wanted this to be different for her than her previous experiences.

“Lay back, little bird,” he told her, and she did. He saw her keep her legs tight together and suppressed a sigh. He knew she was worth the extra effort; it just broke something in him to know what she had been through.

Joining her on the bed, Sandor leaned down and kissed her again, stroking and petting her, until finally, he felt her legs fall apart. He stilled his hand until her eyes opened and looked into his.

“I need to hear you say you want more, little bird,” he told her. It would kill him if she said no, but he’d leave now if that’s what she wanted.

“Touch me, Sandor,” she told him and kissed him again. He stroked her thighs and tickled her, earning him a slight giggle, until his hands drifted low enough to brush her red curls. He felt her tense for a moment and then relax, and he pressed his fingers against her tiny nub of nerves. He might be a brute and a dog, but even he knew how to make a woman peak. Sansa squirmed when he touched her there, and her legs fell open even further, and he snuck a finger down to part her. He was delighted to find her ready. Thanking whatever gods were looking out for him, he burrowed a finger into her tight channel and stroked her.

Sansa squirmed on his finger and Sandor took the chance to kiss his way down her body, settling his mouth over her chest and letting his tongue play and taste her. When he moved lower, dipping into her slim stomach and lapping at her, Sansa moaned. Sandor would have grinned, but he was too enraptured by her body and her response to him. It had never been like this for him before.

Soon enough his nose bumped up against her and he inhaled. Gods she smelled perfect.

He raised his head and looked her in the eyes. “Can I taste you?”

Her breath hitched, and she said, “Yes,” and her voice was a mere whisper in the night. But it was what Sandor needed and he was sure, he’d never had anything as precious as this in his life as he tasted her.

Sansa keened at his first swipe and then buried her hands in his hair, keeping him pinned to her. If he could have smiled, he would of, but all he could do was feast. She was so fucking delicious that if this is all he did to her; he could die happy knowing that they’d given each other this.

He kept the pressure on her and added a finger until he heard her scream his name. He smirked and thanked the gods that her fucking guard was too busy with Jaime fucking Lannister to break down the door. He’d finally gotten his pretty song from his little bird. When he raised his face, her eyes were glazed with lust. Her amazing chest was heaving, and she said, “I had no idea it could feel like that.” He smirked, happy that he’d done at least one thing right.

When he made his way up to her body, he settled them against the pillows in her bed. Sansa snuggled into his arms and stroked his chest until her hand drifted lower. She’d seen how hard he still was, and she knew he hadn’t peaked yet. He still her wrist when it came to rest just above his bulge and looked her in the eyes.

“We don’t have to do that, little bird,” he told her. She saw the truth there and was grateful for it. But she wanted everything.

“I want to,” she said, and he groaned as she stroked him through his pants. “I need this Sandor,” she told him, and he was helpless to resist her.

He swallowed hard and tilted her chin so she could look him in the eyes. “Is there any way in which you aren’t comfortable with?” he asked.

She nodded and then whispered, “From behind,” and Sandor suppressed his rage once again. He knew she wanted to play with him, but if he let her hands onto him, he was afraid he’d spill like a green boy.

He stood and shucked off his pants, and Sansa removed her socks. She gazed at him, shyly, and laid back down, opting to go beneath the covers. He knew that she was still struggling with accepting a man into her body, and he didn’t complain. Whatever she wanted or needed; he’d do his best. Joining her in her bed, Sandor held open his arms and she immediately came and snuggled into his chest, once again petting him. Sandor let their legs twine and he bumped against her and was pleasantly surprised when she didn’t recoil. Soon enough he leaned down to suck on her neck, banking the desire in her again, letting his hand roams over her body, stroking and touching her until she finally said, “I’m ready.”

Laying on her back, Sandor propped himself up over her. He should have scared hr, and made her feel small and weak, but she just felt safe. He had somehow created a space where it felt like they were the only two in the entire world. When she felt him at her entrance she wiggled slightly. He stopped and looked at her.

“Are you sure, little bird?” he asked once more.

“I’m sure,” she said and reached up to kiss him as he worked himself into her. Sansa sighed once he was fully seated in her. He was huge and she felt almost uncomfortable, but there was no pain. It shocked her that someone as large as him could fit in her, when every time Ramsey had her it felt as if her insides were being skewered with a hot poker.   
Fucking hells, she felt amazing, Sandor thought. So welcoming and warm and different from anything else he’d ever experience. And she was looking at him like he was some type of hero. How he wasn’t going to just spill quickly was anyone’s guess, but he wanted her to peak while he was in her, so that she knew it could be a good. Sandor groaned and began to move, all the while keeping an eye on her face, looking for her discomfort or anxiety. Seeing none, he let himself find his pace, and watched as her breathing shortened and she began to pant.

Leaning down he grunted, “Fuck Sansa, you’re beautiful,” and heard her moan and wiggle. He was a crude, old dog, and he had no pretty words for her. But he did have the truth.

“You feel so good, little bird,” he told her, and her eyes met his and saw the truth there. Sandor knew he wouldn’t last long, and reached down to play with her nub again, knowing that he could make her peak. Stroking longer, deeper, harder, he ruthlessly played with her until he felt her begin to flutter around him. Briefly he wondered where he should spill his seed, but she grasped his face and said, “I’ll take moon tea,” and he was lost. There was no way he was pulling his cock from her warm heat, and the thought of spilling deep in her made his pace increase.   
When she finally shattered around him, he pumped furiously until he grunted her name and spent in long bursts inside her. Careful of his size, he tried not to collapse on her, but Sansa pulled him down and welcomed his weight. She brushed soft kisses along his scarred cheek and jaw, and when he came out of the daze of pleasure, he realized she was thanking him.

“Fuck little bird, that was incredible,” he told her and watched her blush prettily. He finally moved off of her and gathered her in his arms. He didn’t care if it made him the worst shit in the seven kingdoms, he wasn’t leaving her bed tonight. Unless she wanted him too.

“Stay,” she said, as if reading his mind, and cuddled into him, her eyes closing. Sandor knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight. He had one perfect night with her, and he wouldn’t waste it on sleep. But she was tired, and he let her eyes close, determined to wake her up later and have her again. Before she drifted off, he thought he heard her whisper something about love, but he was distracted by her hair, and her scent. He still couldn’t believe he was here, in her bed. And even though he hated himself for it, he knew that come the harsh morning light, he would ride south, determined to finish his brother, even though he knew beyond any doubts that he loved Sansa Stark more than anyone else in this entire shit world. He tried to console himself with the fact that he’d made this good for her, that he’d given this back to her, but even he knew that reasoning was hollow. He knew he was a fucking mess, that any normal man would beg to stay here with her. But this thing with his brother had driven him for years, and like a sickness, he couldn’t quit it. Not now, not so close to the end. Then he drove those thoughts from his head and let himself live in the perfect moment that he was in, determined to have her at least once more if she would let him, knowing that he was setting her free to find some worthy husband who would shower her with all the love and devotion she deserved.

Lost in the thoughts of that first coupling, Sansa hadn’t realized she had been crying until Ghost approached her, whining and bumping her hand as she sat in front of the fireplace in her bedrooms. He rested his massive head on her stomach, and she placed her hands over it, stroking his soft ears. Ghost was as much hers now as Jon’s and he was the truest and most loyal friend she had left.

Sandor, Arya, Jon, all of them had been gone for over a month now. Sansa knew it took at least that long to travel to Kings Landing, and she’d heard no word on the final battle. Worry consumed her every waking hour and even chased her in sleep.

She had so many people she loved in danger. She knew now that she loved Sandor. How could she not? Even when he’d broken her heart and rode south, she knew there would never be another for her. Her hands cradled her stomach gently. This morning the Maester had confirmed what she’d known since the moment he had left. Even if Sandor Clegane died seeking his vengeance, a small part of him would survive. Sansa had made sure of that. And if he hated her that she carried his child, that she hadn’t taken the moon tea, well she would accept that anger. Because it would mean that he was alive and that he had come back to her.


	3. Chapter 3

Sandor woke the next morning on the hard ground outside the ruined city of Kings Landing. The stench of burnt flesh almost choked him when he jerked awake, and his body protested when he tried to move and breath. As if they had been waiting for him to open his eyes, a healer pushed a goblet of some concoction into his hand. He grunted and downed the foul liquid, unsure what the fuck was in it, but knowing he couldn’t possibly make him feel worse than he already did.

After he pissed and woke up fully, he braced himself against a tree and took stock. He was a fucking mess, that much was true, and he was still covered in ash and grime from the battle with his brother. He knew he’d need his ribs wrapped if he had any hope in hell of sitting on a horse for a month to get back to Winterfell. He wondered if Jon Snow would be sending a raven to Sansa to tell her about the deal that was struck, or if it would be left to him to say to her she now had to marry him if she wanted to keep her pretty head and the heads of the people she loved. Even though she had welcomed him into her bed and her body, he still struggled to believe that she would want him as a husband. And he refused to allow himself to speculate about what their life might be like if they were to wed; there were too many threats still about for him to think about such an outcome. He ruthlessly shut down all such thoughts.

Eventually, Ser Davos found him and helped haul him to his feet. He was brought to a bathing tent, where he groaned when he sunk into the warm water, and scrubbed himself, needing to rid his body of the last reminders of his brother. He had gashes and cuts, mostly on his face, neck and hands, and deep bruising around his eyes. He was still grateful he had his sight. Gregor was a fucking monster trying to pop his eyes out like plump little grapes. Sandor shuddered at the memory.

He rose from the bath and dressed in the clean clothes that had been provided, but not before a Maester came and saw to him. A paste was applied to his cuts, and his ribs were wrapped so tight he felt like a fucking sausage on butchering day, but when he emerged from the tent, he thought he might be able to make it on a horse. He was ravenous and sought food next.

That’s where Jon Snow found him; gulping down food as if it were his last meal.

The man had a worried look in his eyes, and Sandor’s stomach clenched.

“Have you seen Arya?” he asked, and Sandor shook his head.

“Told her to flee,” he said, “When we were in the map room. She thanked me and turned and ran,” Sandor said, a feeling of sadness creeping over him. He loved that girl like his fucking daughter, not that he would say that to Jon Snow. He had thought she’d had enough time to escape before hell on earth had opened up.

Jon had that permanent worried and brooding look on his face that Sandor had come to associate with the King in the North. He couldn’t blame the man; Sandor felt that at least some of what had happened down here had to fall on him and the dwarf’s shoulders. After all, both of them had bent the knee to her.

“She’s a survivor, Jon Snow,” Sandor said with a false bravado he didn’t quite feel. If she had survived, why wasn’t she here with the brother/cousin she loved more than anyone else? There was a time she wouldn’t shut up about how great he was. And how was Sandor going to tell Sansa that her only sister was dead? He heaved a great sigh and pushed away, his food appetite gone.

“I’ve sent a raven to Sansa,” Jon told him next, and Sandor saw the worry in his eyes. “It explains what the Queen has demanded. She’ll know you’re alive and that you’re coming back North.”

Sandor swallowed. He didn’t know if it were better or worse that she had a month to think about that. For all he knew, she could have archers lined up on the walls of Winterfell ready to cut him down for what he’d done to her before he could even get close enough to speak with her.

“Did you explain all of this?” Sandor said and waved a hand towards the still smouldering Capital.

Jon nodded, and Sandor saw his eyes flash briefly with pain and hurt. And embarrassment. Everyone had heard him speak for the Dragon Queen. Everyone had heard him proclaim that she would be a good ruler for them all. He’d been a complete fool to not listen to his cousins and to not trust Sansa.

“Aye, she knows,” Jon said and sighed heavily. He knew if he’d listened to Sansa all of this might be avoided. Now he had to figure out how to deal with a Queen that had just burnt a million people to a crisp, and who saw him as a threat. She knew he didn’t love her, and she knew his claim to the Throne was better. Not that there was an Iron Throne even to sit on. They had yet to go into Kings Landing to see what remained, but Jon knew a confrontation between him and Dany was coming. All he could do now was try to keep his family safe. He owed them that after bringing the silver-haired Queen into their lives.

He had no hope that he’d leave the south alive this time, but he thought that by sending Sandor Clegane North that Sansa might be safe. And it would leave him here to ensure that Dany could hurt no one else. Or he would die trying to prevent her from any more carnage.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t linger,” Jon said, urgency in his voice. “I wished you had time to heal, but I’m afraid for my sister in Winterfell,” Sandor grunted his agreement. He was scared shitless for Sansa. He knew that Dany would use any excuse possible to fly North and burn her.

There was so much he wanted to say but could not. He could only hope that Sandor knew how dangerous times were now. Dany had fierce jealousy and anger towards Sansa, and at any moment could change her mind. It would be better for everyone if Sandor and Jaime were on the road as soon as possible. Jon looked in Sandor’s eyes and saw that the man was in love with his sister and understood the dangers facing her. He felt a small bit of relief creep in. There was almost no one in Westeros that could challenge a man like Sandor Clegane. And despite how scary and intimidating the man was, Jon knew he’d never harm Sansa. Ever.

“There are horses and provisions waiting for you,” Jon continued, hating that he had to send this warrior on such a journey when he was still so battered. Arya and Sansa had both told him all the ways he’d saved them. And then Sandor had accompanied them on the mission North of the wall, defended Winterfell, kept Arya alive so she could kill the Night King, and destroyed Cersei and the Mountain. There wasn’t another man in the entire Kingdom that Jon trusted more to keep Sansa safe.

Sandor nodded and rose.

“Safe travels, Clegane,” Jon said, grasping the man’s hand.

Sandor jerked his head once and was gone.

There was nothing left here. He was well and indeed done with the south. He knew he would never come back, and as he walked to the edge of the makeshift camp, he received polite nods and murmurs. Word had spread about what he had done, and his already fearsome reputation grew. Just as he approaching the woods, a small figure darted out and grabbed his hand. He spun and caught his breath as Arya Stark appeared before him.

“Thought you were dead,” she said and then threw herself at his massive body, hugging him tightly. He was almost too shocked to react, but his arms came up almost automatically to keep her tight to his large frame.

“Thought you might be as well,” he told her, touched by her display. And secretly thrilled to see her. He wondered if he and Sansa ever were to have a daughter if she might be as bloodthirsty as this one in front of him. He sure as fuck hoped so. Then he thought about that. Children. With Sansa. Fucking seven hells that would be what she wanted.

She stepped back and eyed him. “So, my pretty sister,” she said a smirk to her face. She had heard the rumours that Clegane and Sansa were to be wed. She knew the man loved her sister; had for years. She was thankful that Sansa would have a good man that wouldn’t hurt her by her side. Because as fearsome and as scary as Sandor Clegane was, he was a puppy panting after Sansa.

Sandor felt the heat come to his face and cursed himself. Then he eyed her. “Aye, you’re pretty fucking sister. If she’ll have me.” He paused. And sneered. “Sure, you don’t want to fucking gut me like a fish? A dog like me around her?”

Arya laughed. “Oh, she will have you Clegane.”

Arya knew they had spent the night together at the feast. She wasn’t one to judge, knowing what she had gotten up to with her blacksmith. She tried not to think about Gendry; she still had work to do in the South.

“You could come North too,” he told her and saw her shake her head.

“Not yet,” she told him and looked back towards the main camp. He saw something in her face then and knew that she still had a mission here. He might have talked her out of killing Cersei, but he knew the Dragon Queen would not live to rule the ashes she had created. Either Jon Snow or Arya Stark would see to that.

“Alright then,” he said and nodded at her.

“Heard you killed Cersei,” she said, and he nodded and watched her grin. She was a wild little thing; there was no doubt. “Good.”

“Take care of her, Sandor,” she said, and he jolted at hearing his name on her lips again. He nodded once more.

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” he told her, and she laughed. Then she spun and melted back into the woods. Sandor shook his head, but a lightness filled his chest. That was one piece of good news he could give Sansa.

As Sandor approached his massive black horse, he saw that the Kingslayer was already atop his white one. _Fucking Lannister’s and their pretty horses,_ Sandor thought and grunted at his travelling companion. Tyrion appeared and reminded both men, unnecessarily, how important their tasks were, and how much the Queen hated to be disobeyed. Both men gave the dwarf a funny look but nodded.

“Think we fucking understand,” Sandor all but grumbled.

Jaime just looked shocked. Sandor wondered how long it would be until he came for him. He’d been the man to kill his sister after all.

Then Jaime and Tyrion said their goodbyes while Sandor grumbled, and they were off. Silence reigned between the two men until they were well away from the camp of the Dragon Queen. Neither knew if she had scouts or riders or spies along the way, and they wouldn’t put it past her. Her paranoia was at an all-time high.

It was late evening when they stopped to break camp. Sandor fairly fell off his horse, his body so tired and weary.

Jaime eyed the man who’d been a part of the Lannister family for so long. How did a man like that switch his loyalty to the Starks? Then he thought of his son and his cruelties he had heard about at Court, along with Cersei’s. Even his father’s fearsome reputation hadn’t allowed Sandor to stay in Kings Landing that night that Stannis attacked.

Jaime knew he’d been the man to cut down Cersei, and a large part of him wanted nothing more than to run the man through with his sword. The Hound had betrayed the Lannister’s time and again.

“Fucking get on with it then,” Sandor barked to him and collapsed against a tree.

“On with what?” Jaime asked, a funny look on his face.

“Killing me. Taking your revenge for the fact that I killed that cunt of a sister of yours, Kingslayer,” Sandor sneered. He had nothing left in him to play games with Jaime Lannister.

Jaime startled and narrowed his eyes.

“So, you don’t deny it?” Jaime asked, and Sandor barked out a laugh.

“Why the fuck would I deny it?” Sandor asked him. “Cut through her like soft butter,” he taunted the man standing over him. Sandor watched as Jaime’s shoulders stiffened, and rage crossed his face.

“You could have let her escape,” Jaime said. “She’d done nothing to you.”

Sandor laughed at that. Miserable Lannister cunt still so fucking deluded about his sweet sister.

“Don’t fucking lie, Kingslayer. Not to me. You know what she was,” Sandor said and pinned the man with a look.

Jaime sighed and moved to start a fire. He had known exactly what Cersei was. He always had and had loved her anyways. He’d thought when he’d made his choice to come North and fight for the living, he was done with her. He hated that everything was always such a tangle with her. He knew he loved her and hated her in equal parts; but she was his other half, and no matter how hard he tired, he never seemed to be able to stay away. And then to see her body, knowing she wasn’t pregnant, that it had been a lie as well, Jaime felt that his emotions were a tangle he wouldn’t be able to sort out. Not any time soon at least.

This pattern continued for days. Long stretches of silence between two utterly broken men who had a complicated history.

One night, hating his thoughts, Sandor asked, “Why’d you leave Brienne of fucking Tarth’s warm bed?”

Jaime’s eyebrows shot up, before he snarked, “Why did you leave Sansa Stark’s?”

Sandor grunted and rolled over on his bedroll on the hard ground without answering. He only would speak to Sansa about his reasons. Not this cunt.

They were two weeks out from Winterfell, and already Sandor could see the spring returning to the land; it was warmer, and the snows came less frequently. Sandor’s ribs had started to heal; slowly and painfully and sitting on a horse wasn’t fucking helping. Often, he lost himself in thoughts of that one night he’d had with her. He didn’t want to think about how she might react when he came back to her castle, so he focused on what he’d had when he had been with her.

After he’d slept with her, she curled up into his arms, content to be held by him. She wiggled around until she was comfortable, and he grunted a bit, never having shared a bed for sleep with anyone before. He let one of his massive hands rest on her back, and traced the scars there, still beyond enraged that she had been marked in such a way. It did nothing to detract from her beauty, but Sandor couldn’t imagine the pain she had been in. He watched her sleep for a time before his cock twitched when he’d been focused on her chest for too long, and he leaned down to kiss her awake. Cursing himself again for being a shit, knowing he should just let her sleep, he was helpless to stop. He wanted her too much; Sandor didn’t stop kissing her until her blue eyes popped open and she gazed into his.

Wondering if she would remember what happened between them earlier, Sandor almost pulled back, until Sansa let out a little moan and a wiggled and threw a long leg over his hip, locking them together. He groaned at how silky her skin was, and how they fit together. He felt the heat from her core and resisted just thrusting into her. She’d be ready from their earlier activities, but he doubted she was truly ready for him. Keeping one hand in her hair so her lips were locked to his, Sandor let his other hand trail down her body, until he buried his thick, rough fingers in her core, the smooth, soft feeling of her skin such a contrast to his.

Sansa groaned and wiggled a bit more as he moved his fingers inside her, and he sucked his way down her neck, leaving redden marks behind that marked her as his. Except she wasn’t. That thought alone almost stopped him cold. He was ten times the fool for starting this again with her, but utterly helpless to stop.

Eventually, she begged him to enter her again, and he gladly complied, losing himself in their bodies and how they fit together and moved together. Once again, when he was close to coming, she begged him for him to finish inside her, and he couldn’t possibly say no. Rubbing furiously at her nub, Sansa keened and clenched on him, dragging him to his end as well.

Barely able to catch his breath, he looked at her, overcome by her beauty. “Fucking hell, little bird,” and watched as she smiled shyly.

Once he’d pulled himself from her warm heat, Sansa rose and walked through the room to a basin of warm water and cleaned herself. She offered him the rag, but he shook his head, content to just watch her. He wanted her scent on him for as long as he could manage it; it would be the only thing he’d take with him of hers, apart from these memories.

She banked the fire, then to his delight, walked back to him, naked and unafraid and confident. He didn’t even see the marks on her, just how fucking beautiful he was and how far his little bird had come, he thought. He was so proud of her.

She came back to bed and snuggled into his arms and traced the scars that littered his body. And then she spoke to him. She told him of her suspicions of the Dragon Queen, of her brother’s true identity, what she feared and what she wanted for the North. Sandor listened, and grunted, offering a snarl here or a curse there. He was stunned that she opened up to him like this, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to imagine that this might have been if they were married, and he was her husband. They would make love and cuddle and talk. And rule the North. Then he shook his head, not allowing himself to think such thoughts. Mostly he just tried to memorize what she looked like, tasted like, smelled like.

Once again, sleep claimed her, and Sandor let her have a few more hours before he took her core in his mouth to wake her this time. He tasted them together on his tongue and grunted his satisfaction with what that tasted like. She awoke moaning his name, and Sandor thought if there was a single moment that would have made him stay, it was hearing her say his name in that tone. Once she peaked, he sat on the bed, and she crawled on his lap and kissed him again. She squirmed around until she was lined up with him. He raised one eyebrow at her, and she blushed but nodded, so he lifted her up until she sunk onto him. Bracing herself on him, he watched as she rode him to another peak, and finally allowed himself to spend one last time in her.

Locking her eyes to him, she brokenly asked him why she wasn’t enough to make him stay, and he hated himself more at that moment than he had in his entire life. He wished it were that simple and saw the tears gather but not fall from those blue eyes.

“We could love each other, one day,” she said. “My parents didn’t love each other at first…

“Sansa, stop,” he told her in the gentlest tone he had. He heaved a great sigh. “I have to do this,” he said. And how on earth she could believe that he didn’t already fucking love her was beyond him. But he wouldn’t give voice to the words, not when he was leaving her behind. He told himself it was better if she came to hate him, that it would make it easier for her to move on. Hell, he knew just how powerful rage could be in motivating a person to do something.

“No, you don’t, Sandor. You could stay here with me in Winterfell. I’d make you Master at Arms, and we could raise our children here, safe from the Kings and Queens in the south,” she almost begged him.

He cupped her face and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You don’t need an old dog like me fucking up your future, Little Bird. You know now how good it can be between a man and a woman. You’ll find some proper Northern lord who’ll give you those babes you so desire.”

He watched as her face fell into a remote mask and swore he felt his heart break. She leaned in and kissed him once more, softly and then pulled away from him, and let him dress. She would not beg him to stay, and they both knew it would do no good. When he’d finally dressed, he turned to her and gestured helplessly.

“Tonight was…” he struggled to convey what it meant to him.

“I know,” she said, a sad smile on her perfect face. “Be safe, Sandor. I hope you find what you need in Kings Landing.” The implication that he hadn’t found it here. That she wasn’t enough, he hated himself even more.

He had to force himself not to cling to her, not to drag her back to bed, not to stay. He had a mission, and his entire life had led him to this moment. He nodded once more to her and then slipped out her door into the cold morning mist.

Thinking back to that night as he travelled north again, he wondered if he’d always been such a dumb cunt or if it was just with her. Ironically the only other person in the entire world who might be able to relate to him was on a white horse beside him, but they rarely talked.

Jaime himself was lost in his hellish nightmare. He knew he’d fucked up, leaving Brienne like that. He loved her; of that he was sure. And he knew he’d shattered her when he’d left, telling her he was hateful and so was Cersei and that was why they had to be together.

He wondered what he would have done, had he made it the Red Keep. What was his plan for Cersei? He knew he didn’t want to be with her like that anymore. He thought he might have gone for the child; their child. A chance to have a son or daughter that knew that he was the father from the start. Another chance after he’d failed his first three. But looking at her body, he knew the whole pregnancy had been a lie — just another manipulation in an endless list from his dear sister.

He thought about when he and Tyrion had been confronted by Bronn. She’d sent his fucking sell sword to kill him. Jaime swore if he ever crossed paths with that fucker again, he’d end his life right there. So why did he destroy what he had with Brienne to save Cersei? He still didn’t understand his own decisions.

Jaime had heard about the wildfire that had burned when the dragon had lit the city up and knew that was not the Dragon Queen. That was Cersei. How did a man love a woman who was willing to commit mass murder? Who had already committed mass murder? It had been Cersei that had blown up the Sept of Baelor, leading to Tommen to take his own life.

He snorted when he thought about Jon Snow. As much as he hated himself, he was sure that bastard had many of the same questions running through his head. After all, he’d been the one to bring the Dragon Queen North, to bend the knee and to publicly support her.

The truth was, he didn’t love Cersei like that anymore, and he hadn’t for a long time. Even when he stayed in Kings Landing and laid with her again, it had been as much a habit as a need. When the chance had come to do the right thing, the honourable thing, he’d snatched it without a backwards glance.

Jaime was lost in that night from the feast when he’d sat and japed and drank with Brienne, Pod and Tyrion. He thought he might have never been happier at that moment unless he thought about later that night when he’d finally kissed Brienne. And hadn’t stopped until he’d worked his lips all over her gloriously fit and tight body. The woman had legs for miles, and quick learner that she was, she loved to wrap them around him as he took her deep and hard. Jaime sighed. He was a sorry man. He’d loved two women. Laid with two women and taken two women’s virginity. He thought he and Cersei might deserve each other when he thought about how he had destroyed the one woman who had stood up for him, defended him and claimed him to be honourable when the entire realm thought him nothing more than a Kingslayer.

He wondered about his father as he rode back North. Tywin had never recovered from the death of his wife, Joanna. It had affected every single relationship for the rest of his life. Jaime used to think that was true of him and Cersei, but he already knew that he’d survive Cersei’s death, but not Brienne’s rejection of him.

And he was sure that she would. Reject him that is. Even if it meant incurring the wrath of the Mad Targaryen Queen, Brienne would sooner die holding onto her precious honour than sully herself with the likes of him again. And who could blame her? He certainly could not. She had been so fearful of letting anyone in. And like a needy boy, he’d followed her around Winterfell, hounded her to be by her side, knighted her for fuck sakes before he’d bedded her after they’d survived the impossible fighting side by side. And then he’d broken her. And himself in the process. Because of his hateful sister, who sent a man to murder him. Why would he reject someone who loved him for someone who had sent a man to kill him? What was wrong with him?

Jaime was a shell of the former man he was as they rode North. He knew that the raven had been sent, by Tyrion and Dany. It had stated that in no uncertain terms, Jaime Lannister was to marry Brienne of Tarth and take her back to Casterly Rock, swearing fealty to Daenerys Targaryen. Or else they would both face a fiery death. And, like the fucking hateful man he was, he’d tied Brienne’s fate to him. He’d forced a woman who probably hated him to marry him to avoid death. He’d be lucky if she didn’t run him through with her sword the moment he rode into Winterfell’s dreary yard.

Two days from Winterfell, and Sandor and Jaime moved with an efficiency that only came from spending days with the same person for over a month in setting up camp. Both men were growing more nervous the closer they came to Winterfell, and neither expected a warm reception. When the fire was started, and dinner had been cooked, darkness had fallen, and two men sat staring into the flames. Sandor had mostly avoided this after that last vision of his and the mountain that looked like an arrowhead. In his mind, nothing good had come from that.

“What do you think they’ll do?” Jaime asked suddenly, breaking the oppressive silence. Sandor heaved a sighed and looked at the man.

He’d been around Lannister’s his entire life. Tywin had taken one look at his size, strength and anger and had taken him in at Casterly Rock, training him to become the brutal killer he was today. At first, he’d been Cersei’s guard, and she had been with the Old Lion the most, but Sandor had known for years that the twins were fucking. And especially when Robert had named Jaime to his Kingsguard. Just like Sandor knew the moment he saw that cunt Joffrey that was no stag. Jaime should have had a golden life. By all rights, he should have married, had a bunch of cubs and settled like the Lord he was meant to be at the family seat in the Westerlands. But he hadn’t. Even Sandor had felt a twinge deep in his guts when he’d learned the Kingslayer had lost his sword hand. And now, looking closely, he could see just have stretched thin Jaime Lannister was. And Sandor didn’t think it had a much to do with Cersei as it did with Brienne of fucking Tarth. Sandor didn’t see the appeal. He respected the lady fighter, but that was as far as it went. But any time spent around that ginger-haired wilding cunt, and you’d think she was the maiden reincarnated. And now Jaime, one of the most handsome men in the entire realm was worrying himself sick over one of the least feminine women Sandor had ever laid eyes on. It was baffling.

“If the gates are open, that’s a good sign they don’t mean to skewer us with arrows as we approach,” Sandor said, serious and low. He half expected Sansa to demand that he fight Lady Brienne for a chance to even step foot back in her castle, and he knew he would surely lose to the big woman again.

Jaime’s eyes widened. “Surely not,” he said, and Sandor sent him a look.

“You’re not the smartest Lannister, are you?” Sandor told him, and Jaime grimaced.

They sat and let the silence stretch between them.

Then Jaime asked, “What if they refuse?”

Sandor grunted. It wasn’t that the two men wanted to force them, but both feared what would happen if Sansa and Brienne rejected their proposals. They hadn’t been in Kings Landing, hadn’t witnessed the sheer devastation of what the mad Queen did. Sandor knew that Sansa at least didn’t trust the silver-haired bitch, so he was sure she would go through with the marriage if for no other reason than she was smart and would see no other way out. But Brienne was a wild card, and Sandor didn’t need that black fucking dragon burning Winterfell to ashes because Jaime Lannister couldn’t convince his lady love he wasn’t a total cunt.

“They can’t,” Sandor said.

“Yes, but what if…” Jaime started again, and Sandor sent him a glare.

“They can’t fucking refuse, Lannister,” Sandor barked out and held the man’s gaze. “You know what she is capable of.”

Jaime nodded and swallowed hard.

Both men soon found their bedrolls and broke camp early the next day, both dreading and eager to see those familiar stone walls. Two days later, when Sandor crested the last hill that overlooked Winterfell, he felt something finally settle in him. Something that had been restless and worrisome. Like a pebble caught in a shoe that grinds against you. And then that feeling was gone. He looked at the tremendous Northern castle and knew, for better or worse, this was where he’d spend the rest of his days. If Sansa only agreed to marry him to keep the peace with the new Queen and never allowed him to touch her again, he’d take his punishment and protect her. He’d never leave again unless she ordered him away, and even then, she’d have to have a goddam good reason before he’d leave her side again. He’d suffer watching her fall in love with another man if she hated him, and still guard her and whatever children they might have. It was the least he could do.

Knowing nothing would be accomplished by delaying, and never a man to avoid the truth no matter how brutal it might be, Sandor kicked his horse into a canter and rode to the south gate. Upon approaching it, the two guards looked at him and Jaime and stepped aside. Sandor nodded to both of them. He knew his face was memorable, and the Kingslayer’s golden hand didn’t exactly make him inconspicuous.

Sandor noted the work that had been done to the castle in the two and a half months he’d been gone, but still, the scars of the battle with the Night King were evident. He rode into the yard, and his head swivelled and looked for her. Then he found her, standing on the walkway, overseeing the yard. She had to have known that they were approaching the Castle. She met his eyes, nodded once, and then turned and slipped back into the keep itself. Sandor felt a pit of angst settle in his stomach and dismounted his horse, eager to find her and have the confrontation that was coming. Barking orders at the lad who’d come to take his horse, Sandor spared one look at Jaime Lannister and saw that Brienne awaited him in the yard. Sandor, for once, didn’t envy the man. He’d seen that look on the lady’s face once, right before she tried to kill him and take Arya Stark from him. At least Sansa had indicated that their confrontation would be private.

Jaime didn’t even spare him a second glance, and Sandor shrugged. He had more significant worries that a Lannister right now. Somehow, he, a man who hated liars and hated fancy words, had to convince the woman that he loved to marry him. And this was after he’d bedded her and left her to go and die in the south to fulfill a useless vendetta against his brother. He sniffed at himself and briefly wondered if he should find a bath, but then straightened his shoulders. He wouldn’t cower like a boy and wouldn’t hide from his punishment.

When he got to her rooms, he let his huge hand knock against the wood, he hoped softly, but it sounded like a cannon shot in the empty hallway. Hearing her soft, “Enter,” Sandor took a deep breath and walked inside.


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa stood tall and proud in her rooms when she heard him knock on her door. Her heart was pounding, and she tried hard to control its racing now that he was finally back. She’d received the raven from the new Queen of Westeros, ordering her to marry Ser Sandor Clegane. Dany claimed he was one of the heroes of the battle of Kings Landing, killing both Cersei and the Mountain.

At first, Sansa could only collapse in relief that he had survived, somehow against all the odds. Then she felt her anger rush over her at being ordered to marry by the silver-haired Queen, despite that it was to the only man she could conceivably imagine being a wife to in all of Westeros. But that was beside the point. It was the fact that she was being given no choice in the matter. Her entire life she had been ordered about by someone in power, for her womb and her bloodline to be used to their advantage. At least the marriage was to Sandor, Sansa thought, and not to some other man she could hardly stand to touch. And she knew that he didn’t give a single care about her title or her power. He was the only man who saw her for her.

Sansa had a discussion with Dany about what happened to the North after the wars were won, and now she had her answer. She would accept nothing less than their total subjugation, just like her relatives before her. She wasn’t breaking the wheel; she was steering it now that she was in charge. It ate at Sansa’s heart that the North would lose their independence that they had sacrificed so much for. This was what she had tried to warn Jon about; they all had. And he had ignored them, even after promising her she would never be forced to marry again. Her anger towards her cousin felt boundless these days. What if it had been some hateful man that his Queen had ordered for her husband?

Slowly, over the past month, horrible stories had begun to trickle into Winterfell about precisely what had happened in Kings Landing. It was all confirmed with Jon’s short raven. When Sansa finally confronted Bran, he said that it was all true. Sansa had sicked up her lunch beside the heart tree where her brother spent most of his time, heartbroken and disgusted that Dragon Queen had burned a million people alive. Sansa had lived in Kings Landing, and she knew how many innocents lived there; women, children, men who weren’t fighters, just merchants and bakers and smiths. She couldn’t even imagine the horror of dying that way.

Her heart ached for Sandor and what it must have been like. She knew he hated fire. She wanted to be mad at him. To hate him and cast him from her heart. But he had been brutally honest with her that night. She had pursued him, not the other way around. She had begged for one night, and he had given it to her; a perfect memory of the two of them together. He had healed her so much that night, before destroying her by leaving. But that was her own doing as well. He had never wanted her, the burden of the North, children or marriage. And now he would have all of that.

After she received the ravens, Sansa spent a month worrying. She worried that Sandor had been forced into this marriage. She wondered how angry he would be; not only was he being forced to become a husband, but he’d be a father in seven months as well. Two things that Sansa was sure were never part of his plans. Then she was angry that they had both been forced into this by the new Queen, even though she knew that to refuse her would most likely result in a fiery death. She was angry that she hadn’t even been asked, furious that Jon had broken another promise to her when he had told her she wouldn’t have to marry again unless it was her choice. She wondered if this was the end of the Starks, even though Dany and Jon’s ravens said that they would be staying in the North, as the wardens in Winterfell. She smirked a bit at the thought of Sandor stomping around the castle, now Lord here. It served him right; she thought briefly. He’d be good at it, she knew. He wouldn’t think so, but he had a way of seeing things that others missed. And he would never abuse his new role as many would. When she wasn’t angry and wondering, she went back to worrying about what he thought about all of this.

Sansa hadn’t _told _anyone she was pregnant, although she suspected both Brienne and Pod had guessed. Sam and Gilly certainty had found out though keen observation, and with Gilly herself expecting another child, Sansa often spent long afternoons in her solar with the wildling girl.

Neither Gendry nor Sam had left for their respective keeps. Both had said they were happy in Winterfell, and to be honest, Sansa was glad to have them. The castle felt empty after housing so many in the war against the Night King. Sansa thought that Gendry was waiting on word from Arya, and no one seemed to know if she had survived the massacre at Kings Landing. Either way, there were years of work to do at Winterfell, and Sansa didn’t mind having them around.

Brienne had received her raven at the same time as Sansa, and while Sansa knew her and Sandor had issues to work through, she believed that in the end, they could have a marriage that was built on respect if nothing else. But not for Brienne. She had been devastated when Jaime had left her, and now she was being ordered to marry him and return with him to his family’s seat at Casterly Rock. Her sworn shield had always been so strong and so vigilant, but that afternoon she stumbled, broken and devastated into Sansa’s chambers.

“How am I supposed to marry a man who loves another woman?” she asked Sansa, tears tracking down her face. Sansa’s heart broke for her friend. She knew that Sandor felt something for her; perhaps it wasn't loved, but he cared for her and wouldn’t hurt her. And he’d been honest about his leaving and had rejected all women while he’d been here. He’d all but admitted he hadn’t been with anyone else in years, so Sansa knew there was something between them.

Jaime had done nothing of the sort. Brienne had spilled all their history and secrets, and how he’d whispered how much he loved her, how she was the one for him.

“How could he leave? For her?” Brienne asked, wholly bewildered and broken. The large woman had never been more grateful that she had faithfully drunk her moon tea in the time they had been together. The last thing she needed was a bastard. _It was different for Lady Sansa,_ Brienne thought. She was revered and beloved by those in the North, and whatever child came from her womb would be legitimatized as a Stark. And no one would speak against her. That wasn’t the case for Brienne, who would be further ridiculed to have Jaime Lannister’s bastard. And now, being forced to marry the man who had broken her. Brienne was reeling and threw herself into the work of rebuilding Winterfell, pushing herself harder than ever.

When word had come about the two riders approaching the south gate, Gilly and Sansa had been in her solar, knitting baby clothes. Sansa’s heart sped up, but she forced herself not to run to the walls and watch him approach. She still had no idea what she would say when she saw him again. Her heart was equal parts relief, happiness, anger and uncertainty. She wanted to know that he would never leave her again, but she hadn’t been enough for him two months ago and worried that she wouldn’t be enough to keep him here again. Maybe he wouldn’t right away with the threat of being burned alive, but if she wasn’t enough to keep him here before, had anything changed?

She stood along the walkway and saw him ride into the keep. As much as she wanted to rage and be angry with him, his mere presence was a balm to her weary soul. She could see how ragged he looked and knew that he must have ridden hard to make it back here. She glanced down briefly, and saw the small swell of her stomach, and wondered for the thousandth time, what he might say, how angry he might be. She made eye contact with him before she turned away to make her way back to her rooms. She knew he would find her, and she wanted no audience for their confrontation. Before she had left her solar, she had ordered both a bath and a meal delivered to her rooms.

When she heard the knock, she bid him to enter, and she prayed her heart stopped racing and she could make it through this next meeting with him. He pushed in, and she saw him wince slightly and knew he must still be battered from whatever had happened in Kings Landing. Still, he was the best thing her eyes had seen since the moment he had left, and she had to hold herself back from rushing into his arms physically. He was just such a handsome man to her; strong, fierce, loyal. She liked his biting wit and quick retorts. She missed his embrace even though they’d shared a bed for a single night. And she longed for that intimacy they had. He’d made her feel precious and cherished and womanly. He positively dwarfed her with his size and muscles, and Sansa loved it.

But he did not indicate that he would welcome her touch as he stood there silently, and she held herself back. There was a small part of her was loath to open herself up to him again, afraid of how much he could hurt her. If all he wanted were a marriage in name only, Sansa would give that to him.

Sandor held his breath as he took her in. When he left here, he had honestly thought he would never see her again. And now she was here, standing before him, her hands clasped over a slightly swelled stomach. He could see she had her _Lady of Winterfell _mask on her face. He couldn’t blame her; he’d been a cunt to her. But he realized then just how much he missed how open she had been with him that one night. It had been more than just sleeping with her; it was listening to her speak about her family, the people of Winterfell, the fact that she thought he was worthy of sharing that information with, that his opinion was worth something. That he was worth something. She was one of the only people who had made him feel that way. And he’d left her. Standing before he, he knew just how much he had thrown away when he had ridden south.

He swallowed hard and ran a hand down his face. He had no idea what to say to her. He half expected her to produce a sword and run him through for being such an ass to her, so he just said what came to him first.

“I know you probably hate me, Little Bird, and I don’t blame you, but I hope you will let me explain,” he started and saw her lips quirk into a tiny smile. That was something. He felt a slight bit of tension release from his shoulders.

“I don’t hate you, Sandor,” she said softly. He grunted at that; she should hate him.

“I was a fucking cunt, leaving you like that,” he tried again and saw her lips quirk again. She wasn’t going to make this easy on him. Sandor was not a man whose words came quickly too. They never had and never would. He was more of an observer. And he couldn’t help but say harsh truths, as so many only used pretty words to hide their crimes and true intentions. He’d done it to her over and over again in Kings Landing, and he’d done it again that night of the feast.

But now, if he wanted this ordered marriage to have any chance, he had to try to explain things to her.

He sighed deeply and told her everything, thoughts spilling from his mouth with no rhyme or reason — just a torrent of words and actions and observations since he’d left her over two months ago.

He told her how he’d travelled with her sister to Kings Landing, and about finding Cersei and cutting her down after sending Arya to safety. He saw her smile at that and knew he’d done at least one thing right.

Then he told her in short sentences about his fight with his brother. Her breath caught when he explained how close he’d come to drying alongside that monster, and saw tears come to her eyes. He wanted to reach for her then, but she made no indication that she would welcome that. And even though he didn’t want her worrying about him, he couldn’t help but explain just how exhausted and battered he was, and how long it had taken him to make it back to the camp where her cousin and the new Queen were.

When it came to the meeting with the new Queen, he sighed raggedly and looked her directly in the eyes.

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” he said, his voice conveying his regret. “She made me promise to bend the knee and marry you. It was the only way to keep you safe.” He swallowed hard and looked down before meeting her eyes. “I know you don’t want to be married, and I want you to know that I won’t touch you, the entire marriage if that’s what you want. We need to play her games until someone deals with her.”

It was the longest speech he’d ever given, and he thought he’d see the anger in her eyes. Instead, when he finally really looked at her, she seemed to have settled, and a contented look was on her face. Sandor frowned, wondering what she was thinking. Silence dominated the room, and Sandor shuffled his feet.

Still saying nothing, Sansa finally moved towards him. “You must be weary from your travels,” she said and indicated the bath and the food in the room. She gently placed a hand on his chest and looked into his eyes. “Eat and bathe, and I will be back, and we will talk more,” she said.

Then she left him alone in her rooms, and he was baffled at what had just happened. There was a short knock that shook him from his stupor, and Sandor opened the door to see a groom with sheers in his hands and a serving girl with a bundle of new clothes. Sandor stood back as they both entered. Soon enough, he had been clipped and trimmed and was left alone. Not knowing what else to do, he stripped down, peeling away the rotting bandages that covered his chest and back and sunk gratefully into the warm water. The tub was massive, and Sandor wondered briefly where on earth she had gotten it before he felt himself sleepily drift off to rest in the warm water.

He awoke when he felt someone’s hands were in his hair, and when his eyes opened, Sansa’s face was in front of his. He caught her hand before she could pour some of her oils into his hair and asked, “Little bird?”

She swallowed hard and whispered, “I prayed every day that you would survive and come back to me. And now you are here.”

Sandor could live until he was a hundred, and he would never deserve a woman like her. Unable to help himself, he dragged her face down to his and kissed her, pouring every emotion he had from the past two months into the action. Sansa giggled softly as his beard rubbed at her sensitive skin, and he thought he’d never heard such a sweet sound.

She sighed and looked at him. “We need to talk more, but I wanted you to at least be clean and fed,” and Sandor grunted. She worked her soap and oils into his hair, massaging and kneading him and he couldn’t help but groan at how good it felt. He didn’t even complain that he’d smell like some fancy fucking lord they way she was perfuming him up. Whatever she wanted, he would allow. When he’d scrubbed himself clean, he stood and let the water drip off his frame. Sansa gasped when she saw the dark purple bruising across his chest and back, and he silently cursed, forgetting how much his ribs still ached.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbled, and she shot him an angry look.

“What happened?”

“My brother.”

Sansa shook her head, starting to realize just how close he’d come to death. She handed him a towel and stood back as he dressed. He ran his hands over the soft tunic and breeches. She had made them for him, and he swallowed a ball of emotion that had lodged in his throat about how much she cared. When he was dressed, he lumbered to the table where he started to shovel food in his mouth. He was halfway through his plate when he remembered who he was eating in front of. When he saw her face, he grunted. She’d have to get used to his lack of manners soon enough; he couldn’t change who he was, not even for her. When he was finally full, he pushed his plate away and sat back.

Sansa had taken the seat across from him and was rubbing her hands together, nervously. Sandor tensed, wondering how bad this was going to be.

“I didn’t take the moon tea,” she blurted out and blushed. Sandor’s eyebrows raised. Whatever he’d been expecting it wasn’t that. Then his eyes narrowed, and he looked at her, but the way she was sitting, he couldn’t see her full frame.

“I know you might be angry at me, but if you were going to die, I wanted a piece of you left with me,” she was continuing to speak, and Sandor’s mind reeled. What was she saying?

“Sansa are you…...?” he asked and swallowed, unable to ask what he wanted more than anything. He’d realized it when he’d sat in that crumbling tower and had promised himself if he had a second chance with her, he’d give her as many pups as she wanted. She could fill the halls of Winterfell with their children, and he’d never say no to her.

Sansa nodded and then whispered, “I’m pregnant, Sandor.” She shot him a tentative smile, still unsure of his reaction.

Sandor stumbled to his feet before he dropped to his knees in front of her. Sansa turned so he could see the small swell of her stomach. He swallowed hard and went to touch her, before he pulled his hand back, unsure if she would allow him to touch her. She watched him and saw the wonder on his face and felt the tight bands of fear that had been constricting her heart release. He looked at her in awe, not anger. She grabbed his large hands and placed them against the small swell.

His eyes widened, and he cradled her stomach, before he breathed, “Little bird.”

Sansa felt the tears come to her eyes.

“You’re not mad?” she asked, and he shook his head.

Mad? Was she crazy? She had his pup in her belly. He was going to be a father.

“Gods no Sansa,” he said and then leaned up to kiss her. He didn’t even think if she wouldn’t want him that way, he just reacted on instinct. Sansa met his lips and kissed him back. When he finally let her come up for air, he breathed against her lips, “A pup Sansa,” awe still in his voice.

She laughed and cupped his face. He swallowed hard and looked at her.

“When did you know?” he asked, cursing himself that he’d left her to deal with this alone, and sick at the thought of what might have happened if he had died.

“A month or so after you left,” she said, and he saw the tiny flash of sadness in her eyes.

He ran a rough hand through his hair. “I should never have left you,” he told her and saw the tears in her eyes. “I’ll never leave again, Sansa. Whatever you want. I’ll marry you, take your name, raise our child. You owe me nothing,” he told her, words tumbling out fast and harsh in the room.

Sansa was crying then, and he couldn’t stand that he’d done this to her. He scooped her up and brought her to the bed, where she sunk into his embrace.

“I was so scared,” she told him. “I thought you would surely die.”

He cursed himself again, a foolish, dumb dog. She was everything and why he’d ever thought to leave her was beyond him. “I’m sorry,” he grunted, hating himself. He sighed. “I’m sorry you have to marry me, Sansa, but I promise whatever you want, I’ll do. You never have to have me in your bed again if you don’t want,” he started to say and was shocked when she began the laugh.

“Why do you think I don’t want to marry you?” she asked, bewilderment in her tone.

Sandor sighed and tipped her chin up to meet his eyes. He coughed and then said, “That night we were together. You talked about children and love, but never marriage. I know what you’ve been through,” he said and shrugged. “Just figured you’d never want to marry again.”

Sansa laughed, bright and pretty and then thumped her fist on his chest. “I thought if I talked about marriage, you would never come to my bed, you idiot,” she told him, and he looked shocked. Then she went further, with her next words. She blushed but met his eyes. “I love you, Sandor,” she told him.

Sandor’s mouth dropped. She couldn’t be serious? Could she? Sandor looked at her face, looking for the jape, for the lie. But her eyes were wide and open. And somehow, against all the odds, filled with love. For him.

“Little bird,” he groaned and captured her lips in his, pushing his tongue into her mouth, trying desperately not to take more. That was until she moaned against him and slithered along with him. He carded his hands through her hair and held her head, so their eyes locked. “I fucking love you, Sansa,” he told her, voice rough and filled with emotion.

Sansa’s eyes filled with tears, “Truly?” she asked, and he growled at her.

“Fucking hell, Sansa, I’ve been in love with you for years. Ask your sister some time,” he told her, unable to believe his good fortune. He sighed and felt her snuggle against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her.

He knew they had more to talk about. He’d seen the brief flashes of hurt and sadness on her face. And she wasn’t as open with him as she’d been that one night. But she was here in his arms, and she had his babe in her belly, and she wanted to marry him. And she loved him. Against all the odds, Sandor Clegane somehow had everything he’d ever wanted.

The bath, food, cozy bed and warm room, along with Sansa in his arms soon had his eyes closing. He hated that he was so weary, but he and Jaime had ridden hard to be back here. He felt Sansa press a soft kiss to his lips before she encouraged him to climb beneath the furs of her bed.

He mumbled that he should find his chambers and saw her give him a funny look.

“These are your chambers, Sandor,” she told him, and his exhausted brain could hardly process what she was saying. Content that she didn’t hate him, that he could work to earn her trust and be worthy of her love one day, Sandor mumbled his acceptance, not understanding what she was saying. Once he was underneath the heavy furs, Sansa pressed one last soft kiss to his forehead, smoothing out his hair. He had a vague memory of his mother doing that to him, once perhaps, but it had been so long since he’d had such a gentle gesture. Then sleep claimed him, and he was lost in sweet dreams of redhaired children with grey eyes running around Winterfell.

Sansa smiled down at him as he began to snore. Loudly. She laughed a bit, reminded of her father and how they used to tease him mercilessly when he came back exhausted from a hunt or visiting the small folk. Thinking of Ned Stark reminded Sansa of what he had promised. That he would find someone strong and gentle and honourable for her to marry. It had taken some time, but she finally had that in this scarred warrior snoring in her bed. Their bed.

Sansa knew there were things to work on. She loved Sandor, but he’d broken some of the absolute trust she had in him when he’d left to go south, despite his honestly with her about his intentions. She was a woman that had been used since she was a mere child, and she had deep wounds and insecurities. But she had seen how happy he was about the babe, and she knew that they loved each other. It was enough to build a marriage on. Many others had far less. Slipping out of her chambers, she felt a contentment steal over her. He was home and safe and whole, and he was hers.

Jaime had seen a lot of emotions cross Brienne’s face in all the time they spent with each other. He’d never seen her look at him with such rage. And disgust. His heart sunk. He knew that this wouldn’t be easy, but somehow, he’d arrogantly thought she’d be willing to forgive him. After all, she seemed to be able to forgive him for all his other crimes. He knew it was nothing less than he deserved, but it still cut him deeply to see that look on her face directed at him.

“Ser Jaime,” she said to him, her voice short and angry.

“Ser Brienne,” he said, wondering if he was still allowed to use the title he’d bestowed upon her.

They stood there in the muddy yard at Winterfell, old snow and grime from dragons and dead men still marking the ground. Jaime swallowed hard. Did she want to discuss the state of things here? Out in the open where anyone could hear them? He looked around, and Brienne sighed and turned. He took that as a sign to follow her.

She did not go to her rooms. She would not have him there. When she had first heard that he had survived the destruction of Kings Landing, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. As much as she might hate herself, she still loved him. She suspected she always would. But she would never trust him again. He had broken something in her that she thought was unbreakable. She had given herself to him, laid beside him night after night, taken him into her heart and her body and he, like every other man before, had ultimately rejected her.

She remembered the pain and agony she had been in when he’d left and had wept in Lady Sansa’s lap, her friend stroking her hair and offering what little comfort she could. She had thrown herself into the rebuilding of Winterfell, working herself until she dropped exhausted into her bed each night. But even she couldn’t deny that late at night she let her mind wander to him, and she did pray that he survived.

When she’d received the raven from the Dragon Queen and her hand, rage and embarrassment burned through her. She couldn’t believe that they were forcing them to marry. She had also heard the stories about what had happened at Kings Landing and was as horrified as Sansa. And even her honour wouldn’t prevent her from rejecting the marriage. She would do her duty and marry the man who had broken her heart. But she would never take him into her bed again. The Lannister name and heirs would pass to Tyrion she vowed to herself.

When she’d heard that the riders approached, her heart betrayed her, and she felt the familiar tug of anticipation. It had always been this way with them. They had left and found each other so much over the years, that she couldn’t even imagine what it might be like to be in the same location as him for an extended period, let alone married and settled at a place such as Casterly Rock.

She took a small ounce of satisfaction that he looked worn down and ragged, even though she knew he had done no fighting in the Capital. She decided it must be grief for his hateful sister. Still, she couldn’t help but the small burst of joy that came from seeing him whole and alive although she schooled her features not to show this. Instead, she allowed her emotions of hurt and anger she felt mark her face. She knew him so well that she saw this affected him and took a small amount of satisfaction that she might be able to hurt him as well. Spinning she went to find the family solar, knowing that Sansa would allow her this liberty to speak to him in private. Jaime Lannister followed her, much the same way he did when he first arrived at Winterfell all those months ago.

When they entered Brienne spun and looked at him. Before he could open his mouth, she held up a hand.

“Do not,” she said, voice hard and cold. “I will marry you, as per our new Queen’s orders. I will become the wife of the Lord of Casterly Rock. But I will never lie with you again, Ser Jaime. And any hope for heirs is gone. This will fall to your brother to carry on the Lannister name.”

Jaime swallowed hard and shuffled his feet. He’d heard Cersei speak to him in that hateful tone. Even his father, once or twice. His entire life, people had whispered behind his back and right to his face. Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. Man without Honor. But even when he’d first met Brienne, he’d never heard her use that tone with him. As if he disgusted her. As if she truly hated him.

He hadn’t realized just how much it would break him to lose her trust in him. She’d been his conscious, able to see good in him when no one else could. A part of him wanted to nod and slink out of there, to take her punishment and mope and sink into a deep depression, knowing it was him that had caused this. But a small spark of anger lit deep in his belly. He didn’t leave her to go back to Cersei; he left her to save his sister. That was all. Was it poorly done? Yes, but it was not hatefully done.

“I only went to save her,” he said to Brienne and saw her almost flinch. He swallowed and continued. “Not to be with her. Not like that. Never again like that. But she was my twin, a part of me since the womb, and I couldn’t let her die alone,” he tried to explain and saw Brienne fold inside herself.

“Stop,” she hissed at him, refusing to allow his words to have purchased now. “You’ve lost any right to try to explain to me why you made the choices you did.”

Jaime looked at her and took a step forward. “You have to know, it’s you I love,” he said, and she reached out and slapped him. He reeled back.

“I begged you, Jaime. I shared your bed. I gave you my body, and you left,” Brienne said, sobbing the last words. Then she straightened up and wiped the snot and tears from her face before a hard mask closed over her features. “I will marry you because I don’t want any more innocent people to die,” she told him. “But do not expect any more from me, Ser Jaime.”

Then she spun and left the room. Jaime collapsed into a chair in front of the fire, at a loss on how he was supposed to marry a woman that hated him. He had no idea how he could fix this.

It was here that Lady Sansa found him, and he looked up to see her calling out to the servants to prepare a bath, a room and a meal for him. He barked out a hollow laugh. Sansa cocked her head and sunk into a chair opposite him. She was loyal to Brienne, but she also knew how deeply her friend loved the Kingslayer. Her and Sandor had fared better, she thought, at their brief reunion. She didn’t do this for Jaime, but Brienne. Men did stupid things for women they loved, and Sansa wondered just what she might have done if Arya or Bran or Jon had been in danger. She didn’t condone Ser Jaime’s actions, but looking at the man in front of her, she thought he might genuinely care for her sworn shield.

“Do you honestly love her and not Cersei?” Sansa asked bluntly.

Jaime’s head whipped up, and before he could come up with a snarky or cocky remark, the truth tumbled from his lips. “Yes,” he said raggedly.

Sansa cocked her head. “And what would you have done, had you been able to save your sister?” Sansa’s voice held all the venom she still felt for Cersei Lannister.

Jaime looked at her helplessly. “She said she was pregnant. I thought…. I thought that there might be a chance. For me to have a child that knew me, that loved me. The way Myrcella did before she died.” Jaime felt the tears come to his eyes as he thought about his daughter, dying in his arms on the way back to Kings Landing. He barked out another hollow laugh. “I’ve been a fool, but I’ve only ever loved my family. Until her,” he told Sansa.

She knew that to be true. The Lions of Lannister’s, like the Stark’s, held family dear to their hearts. They could be cruel and vicious, but they were loyal to each other.

Sansa sighed deeply. She wouldn’t excuse Jaime’s actions, but she could see how deeply he did love Brienne.

“She was devastated when you left,” Sansa said, and Jaime’s face crumpled further. “I don’t tell you this to make you feel worse, although you should.” Sansa paused. “She still loves you, despite what she might say or do. But it will take time. And aan effort to win back her love and trust,” Sansa told him. The spark of hope in his eyes was almost too much to bear. Sansa knew then that he loved her deeply and reached out to grasp his one hand. “Don’t give up on her. Prove it to her. Every day, Ser Jaime. That is how you will win her back.” He nodded at Sansa

They sat there, in silence, until Jaime coughed and cleared his throat. “And your reunion?” he asked. He might be a mess, but even he’d seen the small swell on the slim frame of Sansa Stark.

She smiled brilliantly at him. “Better than yours,” she told him, a cheeky grin on her face. Jaime laughed then, throwing his head back.

“That dog loves you, Lady Sansa,” Jaime told her with a knowing grin. He saw her smile falter on a bit, then she rallied and nodded.

“Was it as bad as they said?” she asked, and Jaime shrugged.

“I spent the entire battle chained to a pole by the Dragon Queen,” he told her. “But the screams and the smell,” he continued and shuddered. Then he met her eyes. “I don’t know how he survived. He killed five Queensguard, Cersei and the Mountain. All while that fucking dragon burnt the city to the ground. It was a miracle when he came walking out of that ruin,” he told her and watched her eyes fill with tears.

“I love him so much,” she whispered, before blushing, realizing how much she had revealed.

Jaime nodded at her, and she straightened up.

“We will have to all meet to discuss the weddings. My mother used to have a small sept here that my father had built for her. I know I will marry in the godswood, but you two are of the south,” she said, and Jaime shrugged.

“Whatever Ser Brienne wants,” he said, meaning it. He would do whatever she required.

Sansa nodded and then turned and took her to leave. She had an endless number of things to see to, and a man asleep in her bed that she had missed like she had lost a limb. She had done what she could for Jaime and Brienne. The rest would be up to them. Still, the man had charm by the bucketful, and Brienne had proven unable to resist him in the past. And Sansa knew that he did love the knight. He just had to show it to her.

Later that day, after Sansa had met with the Lords that remained, and sent a raven south stating that the men had arrived at Winterfell, she slipped back into her chambers. She had told her maids that she would take dinner in her private solar and was pleased to see it already laid out. She wondered if Sandor would wake to share it with her, but the man was still snoring loudly.

Grinning slightly, she ate quickly before she undressed. Clad only in her shift, she gently lifted the furs and crawled in beside him. The man was a furnace, and she was always cold, so she eagerly sought his heat. She crept closer to him, and he grunted and snaked a massive arm out, pinning her to his body. She giggled slightly before his hand came to rest on her stomach. He mumbled a “little bird,” and her heart melted that he knew it was her. “Stop squirming woman,” he muttered, and she laughed again before she heard a rumble in his chest and realized he had fallen asleep again. Content to be in his arms, Sansa finally, for the first time in years, allowed herself to fall asleep, safe and protected in the arms of the man she loved.


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa awoke to strong arms cradling her, with a large hand resting protectively on her stomach. When she wiggled a bit, she felt Sandor lean down and nuzzle at her neck, and she moaned appreciatively and leaned back into him.

“Little bird,” he said in his deep growl of a voice. He was still unsure about his place with her exactly. He’d woken hours ago and had watched her sleep, unable to believe that he had been accepted back into her bed. He remembered their conversation from the day before, how they had said they loved each other and her telling him that she was pregnant. That much was apparent when he put his large hand over her slightly swelled stomach. Sansa was a thin woman, and even only two and a half months gone, her pregnancy was apparent. He laid there and wondered how she would handle a child of his. Sandor was a large man, and it would destroy him if he were to lose her in the birthing bed. He still couldn’t believe that she was pregnant with his pup. That she had chosen this. And she had chosen this, by not taking her moon tea. It warmed something in Sandor to think a woman like Sansa wanted his child. She could have the pick of any man in the realm, and for some reason, she’d chosen him.

He knew he had work to do with her, although he had no idea how he would fix things. Words had never been his strength, and there was still a large part of him that was baffled at how this had all come about. That night of the feast, he thought perhaps it had a lot to do with the fact that they had survived the war with the dead. Everyone had been looking for comfort, and even though she had begged him to stay, there was a part of him hadn’t believed she would choose him in the light of day. It was his issue, not hers, that much was true. Sandor laid beside her and realized he had no idea how to be a husband. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this, and certainly not a husband to a woman like Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell. He’d watched her when he’d arrived here. He might call her Little Bird, but he knew she was all wolf now. She was defiant in the face of the Dragon Queen, one of the only ones who had seen what she truly was. She had fought for the people of the North, lobbied hard for its independence. It had all been for naught unless someone could kill the silver-haired bitch.

Sandor knew they needed to be wed soon to satisfy her; even though he knew she had agreed to the marriage, he felt awful that she had no say in the matter and that it was necessary to save their lives. He grunted at thinking about her being forced to marry the imp first, and then that fucker Ramsey. And now him, a battered and scarred old warrior. Sansa had woken and twisted, so she faced him. She could fairly hear him thinking.

“Stop,” she said and cupped the scarred side of his face. Sandor wanted to brush her hand away, knowing how awful they were. But he remembered the night of the feast when she had looked upon his face, and it hadn’t seemed to bother her. And she was going to be married to him; he would have to get used to her touches, and Sansa seemed to insist. Especially his scar. And then he jolted when he realized that seeing her scars didn’t disgust him. Was it possible she felt the same way about his? He’d never allowed himself to believe that anyone could look at him without loathing, but if anyone could, it would be her.

“Sandor, I would marry you without Dany’s order,” she told him, and his eyebrow quirked up. She nodded at his look of doubt. Sighing, she asked, “When will you believe me?”

Sandor sighed. He knew his insecurities would be an issue, despite her pretty words. “Not that I don’t believe you, I just…” he faltered. How did he explain a lifetime’s worth of feeling inadequate to her? Dany might sit on a throne of ashes, but Sansa was the true Queen. Once someone killed her, Sandor had no doubts that she could marry her pretty cousin and sit beside him and rule the seven kingdoms. Or perhaps the dwarf. He seemed well-positioned for a shot at that awful seat. And even if she didn’t want the Iron Throne, there were plenty of Northern Lords that would have her hand in a moment.

“Fuck Sansa look at me,” he said, needing her to understand and he indicated his face.

“Oh Sandor,” she said, her heartbreaking for him. “I have seen true monsters, and that is not you. You have always kept me safe. You are the only man that I trust.” She paused and rubbed her hand against his scars. “This is awful, but only because of the pain you went through, that you endured. No child should have that happen to them, and not from a brother,” she told him, and he felt something loosen in his chest. “I hardly see them when I look at you now. They are as much a part of you as anything else.”

“Sansa,” he murmured her name and threaded his hands through her hair. He would never deserve her.

They were quiet for a time, lost in each other. Sandor was determined that she would set the pace for their intimacy. He wouldn’t push to be with her like that until she was ready to welcome him back to her body.

She rolled her words around his mind, each sentence like a gift. He’d seen the truth in her eyes, but he frowned when he thought about what she had said about trusting only him.

He grunted. “What about trusting your cousin?” he asked her.

Sansa shook her head softly. “I love Jon, I do. But how do we come back from what has happened in Kings Landing? Him, Tyrion, Varys. They all swore she’d be a good Queen, a fair Queen. I’d rather have Cersei on the throne,” Sansa said, bitterness and rage tinging her words, and tears in her eyes.

“Hush,” he said and drew her closer to him. She was sobbing into his chest.

“How many people died Sandor, because they trusted the wrong person?” she asked brokenly.

Fuck he hated that silver-haired cunt. Madness was always an option with the Targaryen’s. And that dragon. Few things made Sandor’s blood run cold, but the screech of that beast surely did.

“We have to marry soon,” he said quietly into the room. Thinking about the Dragon Queen brought back her directive to him. Sansa nodded and traced her fingers along his chest.

“We can do so tonight, in the Godswood,” she told him, almost shyly.

He grunted at that. He’d spent time with Septon Ray, but Sandor still didn’t know what gods to believe in. If there were gods out there, why did things like the burning of Kings Landing happen?

“Is that ok?” she asked him, worried when he’d said nothing.

“Yes, little bird, that’s fine,” he said, more than happy to get the wedding done and the raven sent back to the Mad Queen.

“Jon said that you would take my name,” she went on, and Sandor saw her worry her lip. He would have teased her, but he could see her making a big deal about it. “With your brother dead…” she started to say, and he hushed her with a quick kiss, the first of the day. He didn’t linger, unsure still if that was allowed.

“My name is shit, Sansa,” he told her and saw her relax and send him a grateful smile.

“It’s just that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” she started to explain, and he barked out a laugh. Fancy houses and fancy lords and ladies. Then he frowned.

“Fucking hells that will make me Lord Stark won’t it,” he grumbled, and Sansa let out a peal of laughter.

“Yes, it will,” she said, still giggling as he grumbled.

“Not a fucking lord, little bird,” he griped to her, and she cupped his face again and pressed a quick kiss to his lips.

“You will be after tonight,” she told him. “And then you get to share all the work with me when it comes to Winterfell. And the North.” She chortled in glee as Sandor Clegane, legendary warrior, fearsome hound and one of the most brutal men in the kingdom, blanched at that thought.

“You wouldn’t?” he gasped at her, and she laughed before rolling away from him.

“As much as I would love to stay in bed all day, I have work to do,” she told him. “I have a wedding to prepare for.” In truth, Sansa had done much to get ready for it already, and only minor details remained. It hurt to think she would get married steps away from where Theon had died, but she couldn’t imagine not marrying in front of the weirwood tree, even if her last marriage had been to Ramsay and performed there. She was of the North, and this, gods willing would be her last marriage. And finally to a man she loved.

Sandor watched as she left the bed and went to find her dress. He’d fallen asleep in the tunic and breeches she had provided, but belatedly realized he had nothing else with him other than the clothes on his back. When he looked around the room, small things came into focus. His boots. Sword. Belt. The quilted tunic he’d taken to wearing in the North.

“Why are my things here?” he asked, and she gave him a funny look.

“Because these are your chambers now,” she told him and saw him frown. She got that worried look on her face. “Unless you don’t want to share… I guess I just assumed since we would be married tonight, you would come back to my rooms,” and he saw her lips keep moving.

He hauled himself out of the bed, ribs and body protesting and gently grabbed her by the arms and pressed a kiss to her lips. “Stop chirping, little bird,” he told her, and she looked up at him. “I am more than happy to share your rooms. Just didn’t know if it was proper, was all,” he explained, and she blushed.

She coughed and then said, “I’m pretty sure everyone knows we’ve shared a bed,” and looked to her stomach. He couldn’t help it. He grinned at that thought. No fucking fancy lord better sniff around her these days. And seeing his pup in her belly would assure that she was taken. After tonight, whether she liked it or not, she was his.

She swatted at him, seeing the look of pride in his eyes when she mentioned the evidence of their night together. What was it with men when they got a woman pregnant that made them puff up like roosters? “There’s been no one else, your arrogant man,” she told him and rolled her eyes at him. Then she pointed to a chest and a wardrobe. “Your clothes are in there.”

Somehow in the time, they had been talking, she had managed to dress. Sandor wondered how she had done it, then shook his head. And what did she mean his clothes? He didn’t have any clothes.

She gave him one more quick kiss, then told him she’d see him in the hall to break their fast. She needed to meet with the kitchens before she could eat. Slipping out of their rooms (_and wasn’t that going to take some getting used too_) Sandor made his way over to the wardrobe and chest. When he opened it up, he was astounded at how many things were in it for him. Breeches, tunics, socks, doublets. It looked like she’d commissioned every available seamstress left in Winterfell to outfit him with a new wardrobe.

And then he found the cloak. A Northern cloak. With both the House Stark and House Clegane sigils stitched into it. Sandor ran his hands reverently over the soft furs and heavy material. She must have spent the entire two months he was gone making this for him, not even knowing if he would return. He felt a lump in his throat and swore then and there that he’d make an effort not to be such a miserable bastard, to be someone worthwhile of her, to love her and his child properly, even if he didn’t have a fucking clue how.

Shaking his head at her, he dressed quickly and walked through the halls, finally getting a real chance to inspect what still needed to be done. Now that this was his home, he wanted to make sure that everything was done correctly in rebuilding it. Entering the Great Hall, he was pleasantly surprised to see Arya’s smith still here.

When Gendry saw him, he let out a massive cry and threw himself at Sandor. Barely able to brace himself in time, he grunted as the man hugged him. _What the fuck was up with these people and their affection for him?_ Sandor thought.

When Gendry finally released him, the two men sat down at a table and food was served.

“She was alive when I left,” was the first thing out of Sandor’s mouth and he saw the smith’s shoulders sag in relief. A shadow fell over the two men, and Jaime Lannister slipped into a seat next to Sandor.

Sandor eyed the man critically. He would have thought that Brienne of Tarth had skewered him alive, if not with her sword than at least with words. But Jaime had an arrogant grin on his face.

“Good night?” Sandor grunted, curious despite himself.

“Awful,” Jaime said, grinning still. “She fucking hates me, and I swear she wanted to run me through,” he chirped.

Gendry and Sandor shot each other a look. Gendry knew all about the ravens from the Queen. He and Sansa had become close since both Sandor and Arya had left for Kings Landing, both grieving and worrying for them.

“Ummm, it seems that would make you a bit more upset,” Gendry said his voice betraying his uncertainty.

Jaime picked up a fork and began to eat with enthusiasm. “That’s the thing. It can’t get any worse. She hates me, and rightfully so. And now, the only place it can go is up.”

Sandor grunted at that. He thought the Kingslayer was a bit too optimistic, but he knew fuck all about how women worked. Especially that one.

“So, what’s your plan?” Gendry asked, and Sandor almost groaned. Once you got Jaime Lannister talking you could hardly shut him up.

“I’ll do whatever she wants, give her space, help rebuilt the keep. Need to train,” and he shot Sandor a look. He nodded. If the Kingslayer wanted him to beat him up each day, that could be arranged. “I’ll do whatever it takes. Right now, that’s keeping out of her way.”

Neither Gendry nor Sandor knew if Jaime’s strategy was brilliant or the dumbest thing they had ever heard, but neither one was precisely experienced when it came to women. The three men sitting at the table had surprisingly little variety when it came to women- at least highborn women.

Shaking his head, Sandor heard the subtle shift in the hall and knew that Sansa had entered the room. He looked up from his meal and saw that Brienne’s squire Podrick was by her side. He let out a growl as he watched as she grabbed his arm and laughed at something he said before Pod gave her a quick hug. Sansa thanked him and turning to take her seat at the head table.

Sandor knew he was on shaky ground, but he couldn’t help the raging jealousy he felt when he saw another man touch her. He knew he had no right to say anything to her. He had left her. But he’d heard all about Podrick Payne and his popularity with the ladies.

Suddenly not hungry he shoved his plate back and pushed back from the table. He got up and stormed out of the hall, not even bothering to stop when he heard Sansa call his name. He knew if he did, he’d say something he’d regret. It was his stupidity and foolishness that had made him leave her, and he knew that there was nothing between her and the young man. Still, it ate at him to see another man make her smile so easily. He stalked to the stables and barked out for his horse to be saddled and brought to him. He needed space and a hard ride to rid himself of his jealousy.

“Sandor?” he heard her say his name and cursed. He kept his back to her, unable to face her when he felt this storm of emotions in himself.

“Go back to the dining hall, little bird,” he barked at her. He cursed himself then, and his utter lack of ability to be with a woman. He’d ruin everything before he would even have a chance to make up for the first fuck up.

“No,” she said, and he heard the edge of steel in her voice.

“I’m not fit company right now, Sansa,” he told her and cursed as he heard her walk towards him.

“What happened?” she asked, clearly bewildered.

He barked out a harsh laugh. “Just me being a dumb dog,” he told her, hoping that would make her leave. It did not. She finally reached him, and he felt her hand reach out to touch him. Heaving a great sigh, he turned and faced her and saw the look of hurt on her face. Again. Seven fucking hells he was terrible at this.

“Don’t say that,” she admonished him. “Clearly, I did something to upset you.”

He didn’t respond, and the silence stretched until it became uncomfortable. She shuffled her feet a bit and looked away from him, and finally, when he couldn’t stand it anymore, he spoke.

“Fucking hell Sansa, it was nothing you did, it’s just me,” he said to her and ran a hand down his face.

She just kept looking at him, not letting him move, not letting him slink away. They must have stood there for an age because even Sandor felt the cold. He started to grow angry; she needed to be mindful of the babe she carried and standing out here in a showdown with him wasn’t good for her.

“Go back to the keep, Sansa,” he said and hoped the plea in his voice would move her. Once again, he saw that small flash of hurt in her eyes, and she finally nodded and turned to leave. Sandor waited until she had left and then cursed himself over and over again. When his horse had been saddled, he swung upon the beast and rode out of the keep, determined to clear his head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***********************~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jaime Lannister had fallen into a deep sleep after he’d been left by Sansa. He’d bathed, eaten and fallen into his soft bed. He didn’t think about the fact that the last time he’d been asleep in Winterfell, it had been beside the woman he had loved. Brienne tended to take up most of the bed and curl herself around him. He’d found he’d like it. But Jaime pushed those thoughts firmly from his head.

He knew now that there was nothing more to lose. She hated him for a good reason, and she never wanted to be with him again. And she was being forced to marry him. Knowing all of this, Jaime decided that he would throw himself into the rebuild of the castle. He was unsure when Brienne would consent to them marrying, and he was in no rush to get back to Casterly Rock. He hadn’t even thought of his family’s seat in years, to be honest; and then only when he had pulled all the Lannister soldiers from there and given it to the Dragon Queen.

He had also decided that he would not follow Brienne around. He would respect her space. He thought about how he’d hounded her when he’d first arrived here, and he knew if he did that now, it would only drive her further from him. And he would train. He’d decided that right before he fell asleep. He remembered his father had led men into battle at fifty-eight, and Jaime was not even close to that age. If he were to rebuild the Westerlands, the people deserved a Lannister that could defend them.

He cheerfully broke his fast with Sandor and Gendry, although things turned sour when the large man scowled and pushed back from the table. Jaime shot a look at the front of the room and saw Lady Sansa laughing with Pod. He shook his head at the Hound; it was clear to everyone that Sansa’s eyes had lingered to her betrothed, but the jealous man had already left. Jaime watched as Sansa followed Sandor out of the dining hall and shook his head. It seemed he wasn’t the only idiot in the castle these days.   
A shadow fell over the table, and Jaime looked up to see Pod glaring down at him. He held up a hand to the boy and shook his head. “I’ll do whatever she wants,” was all he said, and Pod nodded, before sliding into the seat that Sandor had vacated. Both Gendry and Pod wanted details about what had happened at Kings Landing, and Jaime told them what he knew. Both men looked sick when he explained the state of the Capital, and Pod was especially hard hit.

“All those people,” he just kept murmuring, over and over again. Jaime eventually cleared his throat and asked what he could do. Both men gave him a funny look, but they told him how work was being done on the one wall that the dragon had all but destroyed. Lady Sansa wanted the walls rebuilt first, and Jaime nodded. He looked at Pod and asked if they could spar later and saw a bit of light come into the young squire’s face. He nodded eagerly.

Then he looked at Gendry. He was now Lord of Storm’s End. “You as well. If you’re going to be Lord of such a keep, you need to know how to swing more than just a hammer.”

Both young men nodded at him, and Jaime took his leave, ready to throw himself to the mercy of whatever needed to be done. As he was leaving, Brienne entered the Hall, and Jaime smiled and bowed to her, before quickly taking his leave. Taken aback slightly, Brienne’s eyes trailed after him as he left the hall.

Seeing Pod and Gendry sitting together, she demanded to know what Jaime had said. When they told her, her eyes narrowed. She had never known Jaime Lannister actually to work. He was a Lannister. She broke her own fast and admitted he was right about Gendry learning to fight. She agreed that she would oversee their training later that day in the yard.

By midmorning, Brienne’s curiosity had gotten the better of her, and she wandered over to the section of the wall that was being rebuilt and startled when she saw Jaime stripped down and hauling stone. She could help the jolt of lust that bolted through her body and ruthlessly tapped it down. He hadn’t seen her, and she heard him stop to speak to one of the builders, commenting on some feature that was present at Casterly Rock. She turned and left, not needing to have him catch her watching him.

When she went to find Lady Sansa, she had heard that the Hound left her upset and crying this morning and she wanted to check on Sansa; she heard Jaime’s voice in Sansa’s solar. Brienne stopped just outside and shamelessly eavesdropped.

“I want to thank you for your advice, My Lady,” Jaime said.

“I just want her to be happy,” Sansa told him.

Brienne heard Jaime sigh. “Me too.”

Brienne’s heart clenched a bit at that admission.

“Have you spoken to her about the wedding?” Sansa asked, and Jaime let out another great sigh.

“Not yet,” he said a bit ruefully. “Even though she agreed, I’m a bit afraid she’ll just run me through and solve her problems. After all, what lady wants to be married to a man she hates?”

“Oh Jaime,” Sansa said, “Even if she hates you know, it is only because she loved you so much. You have to know that.”

Brienne stiffened at those words. Who was Sansa to speak on her behalf? Then she heard a ragged breath leave Jaime’s body.

“I love her as well, and it hurts a part of me that she is being forced into this marriage,” Jaime said. Brienne wanted to storm the room and demand he stopped lying, but she wouldn’t give her position away.

“She needs time, but we don’t have that. Not if we are going to appease the new Queen,” Sansa told him firmly.

“I know.” Silence dominated the room. Then Jaime asked, voice a bit tentative. “Do you think there is a chance she will ever forgive me?”

Sansa sighed. “I don’t know Jaime. She doesn’t trust you, and she doesn’t believe that you love her,” Sansa told him.

“But I do love her. I’ve loved her for a good long while,” he said, his voice rising in frustration. “How can she not know that? She knows everything about me. The bad, the good. She knows me better than anyone. How can she not know that I love her?”

“She thought you left her to go back to Cersei. You didn’t even tell her why. You didn’t even say it was because of a baby. What was she to think?” Sansa told him, voice hard and unyielding.

Jaime sighed again and cursed, “Cersei.”

Brienne jolted a bit. She’d never heard him say his sister’s name quite like that. And he didn’t know she was standing here. Reeling from his declarations, Brienne spun, determined to find Sansa after they had finished talking.

Later, Brienne went to the training yard to see Pod and Jaime sparring. He was barking out orders and japes to her squire and Pod was grinning. Unsure what took her over, Brienne stepped into the yard when they had finished. She drew her sword and arched an eyebrow at him, and he simply nodded at her.

There was a lightness to him that didn’t exist before, as their swords clashed and sang. They drew a crowd, delighted gasps and shocked murmurs as they fought. Like the night they had defeated the dead, there was something about how they moved together, totally in synch. It was poetry, and they both knew it, and it made something in Brienne ache, knowing how compatible they were. When a spurt of anger overtook her, she knocked him into the mud and stood over him, chest heaving.

“Fuck me, you’re magnificent,” he breathed, and she saw the truth in his eyes. Jaime Lannister was not a good liar.

Spinning, she left the yard, unsure what to feel. He jumbled all her emotions, and he always had. He was the Golden Lion; the beloved child of Tywin Lannister and one of the most handsome men in the entire realm. She was… her.

His hateful sister was dead, and she had no power over him anymore. But Brienne worried that he only spoke of love for her because Cersei Lannister was no longer an option. She never wanted to be someone’s second choice. That had been her lot too often in life.

“Ser Brienne,” she heard him call, and she kept walking, unsure where she was going, but needing to be away.

“Brienne,” he said again, “Stop.”

She whirled on him; her gaze furious. He wanted to step back in the face of such devastation but held his ground. He had done this. To her. To the woman he loved.

“What do you want Jaime?” she asked, half worried he’d declared his love for her, and she’d be unable to deny him.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” he began, and gestured to the muddy yard they had just left. “I told you I would respect you and what you wanted. And I would never say something like that to Pod.” He grimaced at that thought, then met her eyes. “When you are ready, we need to discuss the wedding. I know you hate me, and I know you think I don’t love you best, but we have no choice. You will never know how sorry I am that she is forcing this upon you,” he told her, and Brienne could see the sincerity in his eyes.

She knew that much to be true. And she also knew, at that moment that she didn’t hate him. Not entirely.

She nodded. “Let me speak with Lady Sansa,” she said. Before she could take her leave, he cleared his throat.

“I don’t wish to leave Winterfell once we are wed. At least not immediately,” he told her and saw her shoulders sag a bit in relief. He thought he hated the North; so many bad things had happened here, but there was an honesty and determination of these people and this land that called to him. And he thought that they needed more time with people to buffer the emotions that seemed to ricochet between them. He saw Brienne nod and take her leave. He let her go. But once she was gone, his heart felt a bit lighter. He thought that today had been a good day.

When Brienne left Jaime, she went to find Lady Sansa. She had to know what else she had said to Jaime what she thought of everything that had happened since the men had come back. And she felt a small kernel of anger towards her friend. It felt like Sansa was taking Jaime’s side.

Knocking on Sansa’s door, Brienne heard a soft enter and pushed in. She had expected to find Sansa at her desk, writing ravens and tallying food stores as she was most days. Instead, she was sitting in a chair, and it looked like she had been crying.

“What’s wrong?” Brienne said, her previous anger forgotten. She loved Sansa like a sister.

“I’ve done something to upset Sandor,” Sansa said, bewildered and hurt. She saw Brienne tense and looked at her sworn shield. “I will handle it Brienne,” she said, and the knight nodded.

“Why are you talking with Ser Jaime?” Brienne blurted out, and Sansa’s mouth popped open, but a small smile broke out across her face.

“Because he needs help,” she told Brienne and watched her shield pace.

“I thought we were friends,” Brienne said quietly, and Sansa startled a bit. They were friends.

“Have I done something wrong, Ser Brienne?” Sansa asked and watched as the large woman struggled with her words.

“You know he hurt me. You know what he did to me,” Brienne said, and Sansa nodded. “Why would you help him?”

Sansa sighed and gestured to a chair that Brienne reluctantly sank into.

“Do you love him?” Sansa asked and saw Brienne’s immediate protest. She held up her hand. “I didn’t ask if you wanted to love him, or if you forgive him. Right now, do you love Jaime Lannister, despite what he did to you?”

“Yes,” came the ragged whisper from Brienne’s lips.

Sansa reached out and grasped her hand. “It is not my place to forgive him, nor is it my place to judge whatever happens between the two of you. I think you should make him crawl over broken glass to win back your favour. He broke your heart and your trust, and that will not be easy to repair,” Sansa said, and Brienne snorted a bit at the summary of his crimes. “But he loves you Brienne,” Sansa said. “And I think he loved you most when he went south.”

Sansa huffed out a breath and looked at her friend. “It is not up to me to determine when he might find forgiveness from you, or if he even can. But I know what a hateful marriage feels like, and I don’t want that for you.”

Brienne saw the truth in Sansa’s eyes.

“He says he wants to stay in Winterfell, for a time after the wedding, My Lady,” Brienne told her and saw Sansa smile.

“Oh, that would be lovely,” Sansa said, and Brienne smiled a bit. Neither woman had many friends, and they had grown exceptionally close. They sat in silence, both contemplating their respective relationships.

“Am I a fool?” Brienne asked Sansa. “For still loving him, despite what he has done.”

Her friend smiled softly at her. “No, you’re not a fool. Brienne, we just defeated the army of the dead. And then a million people were burnt to a crisp. The Seven Kingdoms have been a war, tearing each other apart for a decade. Most of us have known too much pain, too much hurt, and too much heartache. And there are so few of us left.”

Brienne nodded her agreement.

“We are all fools in love,” Sansa murmured, and the two women exchanged a knowing look.

“Do you love him? The Hound?” Brienne knew that Sansa had been devastated when he had left, but she wanted to know now.

“I do.”

“And does he love you?” Brienne could hardly conceive of such a notion, even though they’d made their peace.

“He says he does.”

“The babe?”

Sansa’s blue eyes met Brienne’s. “You should have seen how happy he was Brienne. I never imagined him being so excited to be a father.”

Brienne snorted. She’d watched how he’d looked out for Arya Stark; that man knew more than most in the realm.

Brienne soon took her leave, wanting to be there when Sandor rode back into the keep. The man needed a reminder that Sansa was not without friends. Strong friends. But she felt something settle about Jaime. Whereas yesterday she had only bitter anger and rage, today she at least accepted that she still had feelings for him. She wasn’t ready to forgive him, and she certainly didn’t trust him. But she had a sliver of hope that her marriage wouldn’t be the misery she had thought it would be only a week ago. As she settled in to wait for Sandor, another thought came to her. Jaime had survived Kings Landing. She may have anger towards him now, but he had survived. Which meant she could work through her anger. She thought what it would have felt like to learn that he had died and as hurt, as she was, that would have been infinitely worse. Knowing they had to discuss their wedding, and how awkward that would be, Brienne’s face lit in grim satisfaction when she saw the Hound ride into the stable. They had made their peace, but there was something about the man that made her want always to prove herself. Grinning a bit, she let him dismount and then laid into him, satisfied when she saw the worry flash through his eyes. Watching him scurry away to find Sansa, Lady Brienne was satisfied with her day and went to find a bath and her chambers to ready herself for Sansa’s wedding this evening.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***********************~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sandor rode for hours, looking over the grounds, seeing what the war with the dead had done to the land. This far North and spring had not yet come, and he regretted leaving the castle without his new cloak. When he finally returned, it was mid-afternoon, and too late he remembered they were to be married this afternoon.

When he entered the stables, Brienne was waiting for him with a scowl on her face. “What the fuck did you do to her?” she demanded of him. He cursed her.

“Fuck off.” But there was no heat to his words and even Brienne could see that. He looked ashamed.

“She was happy when she came to the kitchens, and then something happened, and she’s been miserable ever since.” Brienne might have exaggerated Sansa’s hurt slightly, but she felt no guilt. Sandor had left her without an explanation, and she had been upset.

Sandor forgot how relentless the big knight could be. He sighed and mumbled that he’d fucked up and she heartily agreed.

She punched him, not lightly, on the shoulder, and ordered him to go and find her. And fix it. He heaved a sigh and by the look in her eyes she would run him through, again, if he didn’t do as she ordered.

“Where is she?” he asked, knowing that he was only proving why he’d make a terrible husband.

“Her rooms,” Brienne said. “All day. On her wedding day. You know how awful the last one was.”

If there was one thing anyone could have said to make him feel worse, it was that. Knowing he had fucked up, again, he lumbered to their room, unsure of what he could say. Even though Sansa had said these were there rooms, he knocked.

He heard a muffled sob and unable to stand the thought that he’d done this to her, pushed inside. She was curled up on her bed, face red and tears tracking down her face. When she saw him, she sat up and he saw the anger cross her face. Closing the door, he stood there, unsure how to fix this.

“I’m sorry the thought of marrying me is so awful that you had to spend the entire day apart from me,” she cried, hurt and anger lacing every word. “I promise that once we are wed, you can spend as much time away from me as you’d like.”

He heaved out a huge breath. Clearly, she had misunderstood why he’d needed to get away. And now she was looking at him like she’d like to run him through with a sword if she could.   
“It wasn’t like that,” he mumbled.

“Then what?” she demanded; all trace of tears gone.

When he shuffled and didn’t answer she stood up. She was glorious in her anger and Sandor’s heart almost stopped at how beautiful she was. And she was to be his. It didn’t even seem possible, like some giant jape and at any moment someone would tell him he was the fool for thinking she’d ever want him.

“No, you will not do this. I will not have this be my marriage. You will speak to me, Sandor Clegane, and not go running off like an errant child,” she told him and poked him in the chest, her eyes blazing in righteous anger.

He was a bit taken apart by her fury and if he were frank, he felt a bolt of lust shoot straight to his loins at her display. Knowing he had no choice; he mumbled his reason under his breath.

Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

“I was fucking jealous. I wanted to fucking smash Brienne’s squires face in until he was a bloody fucking mess for touching you. For making you laugh. For getting a smile from you. And I knew you wouldn’t fucking like that, so I left. Because I didn’t want you to see the type of man you’re being forced to fucking marry, Sansa,” he bellowed into the room. “This is what I am. A jealous, scarred, old dog. That can’t fucking stand the thought of another man even talking to you, let alone touching you. And I have no right because I’m the one who fucking left.”

By the time he’d finished speaking, Sansa was standing there with her mouth agape. Sandor’s chest was heaving, and he tried to catch his breath, sure she’d kick him out of her rooms. He saw her eyes narrow and could see her mind working.

“You were jealous? Of Pod?” she asked, somewhat incredulous.

He nodded and glared at her. He didn’t need to be fucking mocked.

“The whores don't even take his money, for fuck sakes,” he grumbled. Her eyes popped open wide and curious.

“Why?”

He sneered. “His tongue, his cock. How the fuck should I know? All I know is he was touching you. And you’re mine Sansa, and I want to kill any man who comes near you. How can you love me knowing that’s in me? Knowing I’m just like your last husband?”

Then he watched, incredibly, as she moved even closer to him, a soft look in her eyes.

“You love me, don’t you?” she whispered into space between them when she’d stopped in front of him. He grunted and nodded. “You’re nothing like him, Sandor. Nothing.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“So, you still want to marry me?”

His eyebrow shot up. What was she asking, if he still wanted to marry her? 

Of course, he still wanted to marry her. And then he wanted to keep her in their bed for days. It was all he could do not to rip that dress off her body and kiss every single inch of her right now, making her peak again and again as he did whatever he wanted to her body, making her see how much he needed her to be his. He’d keep her in bed and never let her leave if she didn’t have so many damn responsibilities. It was all he’d thought about.

“Fuck Sansa, of course, I want to marry you, even without the Dragon Queen’s order. You’re all I’ve thought about, dreamed about. You’re the only reason I survived that nightmare in Kings Landing,” he told her and watched as the tension and uncertainty left her shoulders.

She stood close to him now and rested a hand on his chest. “You need to talk to me Sandor,” she said quietly as if he were a particularly slow learner. To be honest, he probably was.

He sighed. “I didn’t want to scare you,” he tried to explain. He knew that she’d been with a violent man before and that she didn’t need that now.

She nodded. “I understand, but if you had told me this before you’d left, then I wouldn’t have spent the whole day worrying that it was me you were upset at.”

He frowned. “I told you it wasn’t you.”

Sansa sighed. He had said that much. But her experiences with her previous husbands had left her insecure, and while she and Sandor loved each other, they still needed to get to know each other.

“You did, but…” Sansa worried her lip, then met his eyes. “I still have trouble believing things. Good things or bad things. If you don’t tell me, I will always think it is something bad.”

Sandor swallowed hard. All he knew earlier is that he wanted to punch Pod in the face and spare Sansa the embarrassment of having her future husband act like a monster in front of everyone. But he had to remember what she had been through. He needed to learn, quickly, what it was that she needed.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled and then she burrowed her way into his chest, trying to wrap her arms around his massive frame.

“Pod’s a friend, Sandor. Just like every other man in my life. There’s only been you and Ramsey that I have lain with,” she told him and felt him growl when she said her last husband’s name.

“Fucking cunt,” Sandor muttered, and she laughed.

“So, are you still alright to be married tonight?” she asked, a bit of uncertainty tinging her voice.

“Yes, Little Bird, I still want to get married tonight,” he told her and watched her tilt her head up to his. Taking it as a sign he’d been forgiven for his latest stupidity, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips, before Sansa withdrew, a teasing smile in her eyes. He saw the heat there as well, and something settled in him.

Turning to leave, she told him it was time to prepare for their wedding, and Sandor felt a peace come over him that he’d never previously known. In a short time, he would marry Sansa Stark, take her name, and become the Lord of Winterfell. It was a heady feeling for a second son, from a nothing house in the Westerlands.

“Are you sure?” he asked her one last time, and she nodded, and smiled before she called out to her handmaidens to prepare. She was finally going to be married to a man she loved, and Sansa couldn’t wait.


	6. Chapter 6

Sansa disappeared from their rooms, leaving Sandor by himself. He scrubbed a hand over his face and glanced towards the bath. He’d just had a fucking bath the other day, but clearly Sansa thought another one was required. He’d never been so clean in his entire life and he wondered if this was a sign of things to come. He fucking hoped not. And then he stopped and berated himself. Who was he to argue if she wanted him clean?

Before he could strip down, a knock sounded at the door. Sandor yanked it open to see the chubby friend of Jon Snow’s standing there.

“What?” Sandor barked and Sam laughed a bit nervously.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he begun and then thrust something into Sandor’s hands. It was a snow-white cloak that when unfurled had the Stark sigil stitched onto the back. Sandor ran his hands reverently over the soft white fabric.

“How in seven hells did she get this?” Sandor asked, mostly to himself.

Sam shrugged. He had no idea what the story was behind the cloak, but clearly it meant something, to both of them. Sansa had been insistent that Sam get it to Sandor. If he didn’t know better, Sam would have said that it was one that the Kingsguard used to wear, but how Sansa had ended up with it was anyone’s guess.

Sam cleared his voice, and then looked at Sandor.

“Do you know what’s supposed to happen tonight?” Sam asked the large man.

Sandor grunted and shook his head.

“It’s simple really, Sam explained. “You’ll stand before the weirwood tree with Bran and Sansa will come there. Bran will ask who comes before him, and she wants you to cloak her. Then Bran will ask if you accept her.”

Sandor raised an eyebrow. “That’s all?”

Sandor appreciated the simplicity of the Northern way even more. He was not a man prone to fancy words.

Sam grinned. “That’s all,” he said. “Ummm, I’ll come back in a bit and get you.”

Sandor nodded and then closed the door, still in wonder that she’d kept the cloak he’d used to shield her with all those years ago. There was nothing else Sansa could have done to prove that she wanted this marriage than give him the cloak. He thought back to that day, wishing he’d done more, that he could have taken her away. They’d be dead for sure, but it ate at him that she’d suffered so much.

When he was scrubbed and dressed again, choosing a dark tunic, dark breeched and his boots, he swung his new Northern cloak around his shoulders and fasten it. It settled comfortably on his shoulders and Sandor straightened. In a matter of minutes, he would become Lord Stark. It was more than just marrying Sansa. It was being a husband and a father. And helping her rule her Kingdom. Every single person knew that Sansa was the power in the North. The lords here and in the Vale and Riverlands loved her. And it would fall to him to support her in any way needed. It was a daunting task for a man that came from a nothing house in the Westerlands. She was a fucking Queen and he would never be worthy of her.

Sam knocked softly on the door and opened it to see Sandor waiting. Nodding to the former night’s watchman, Sandor and Sam made their way to the godswood. Once there Sandor saw a host of people from the keep gathered around holding torches as was the custom of Northern weddings. He thought he’d see angry faces that she was being forced to marry him, but apparently, his deeds had trickled north as well and he mostly saw acceptance, and even some reluctant pride that he would be her husband. Everyone knew that if nothing else, Sandor Clegane would keep their Queen safe.

Sandor grunted when he reached the weeping white tree and saw Jaime Lannister standing beside Bran in his wheelchair.

“Dog,” Jaime said with a grin.

“Kingslayer,” Sandor sneered, and Jaime barked out a laugh and clapped the man on the back.

“I figured it would help to have someone you’ve known standing by your side,” Jaime said winking, and Sandor just gave him a look that said, _eat shit_. Jaime Lannister’s grin got larger if that was at all possible.

Shuffling his feet, a bit, Sandor waited impatiently for Sansa to arrive. So far, he’d only seen her in severe clothes that almost looked like armour, so buttoned up so no one knew what she had suffered. He remembered her gowns from Kings Landing and the soft pastel colours. He thought the black and dark greys suited her and reflected what she had become. Still, nothing could prepare him when she arrived at the Godswood.

On each side of her were Pod and Brienne. Suddenly the conversation with the squire this morning made sense and Sandor berated himself up again for being such a jealous fool. For a man who claimed to not want a wife, he sure was proving to everyone just how much he loved her.

Then all thoughts fled as he truly looked at her. She had chosen a shimmering grey gown that looked warm and soft. Sandor was pleased that she had forgone her normal dark colours, hoping that meant this wedding was something she wanted not simply because the Dragon Queen had ordered it. She’d said it, but he wanted her to mean it.

As Sansa walked towards him, Sandor let everything else fade away as he watched her approach him. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen; she always had been. Her gown clearly showed her small bump and Sandor felt a sense of pride at seeing his seed take root in her. He’d never expected to ever have a child of his own and knowing that Sansa would give him one was a heady feeling. He’d never expected any of this; a wife, a child, a home. When she finally reached him, she held out her hand and he grasped hers in his large one.

“Little bird,” he breathed, and Sansa smiled at him. Sandor felt his world right as if he’d been waiting his entire shit life for this exact moment. Sansa Stark would be his.

Bran coughed and said, “Who comes before the Old Gods this night?

Brienne responded, her voice loud and clear, “Sansa, of House Stark, comes here to be wed. A woman, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“Sandor of House Clegane, heir to Clegane Keep, a man trueborn and noble. Who gives her?”

“Brienne of House Tarth, Sansa Stark’s sworn shield and dear friend.”

Sansa smiled warmly at Brienne. They had discussed this part, and she was happy Brienne had added that last bit for it was the truth. Brienne had been a dear friend to her in her most desperate hour.

Bran spoke again, “Lady Sansa, do you take this man?”

Sansa smiled brilliantly at Sandor and he swore his heart stopped.

“I take this man,” she said, and everyone let out a cheer. Typically, this would be the end of a Northern wedding ceremony, but Sansa wanted to be cloaked by Sandor. She needed to blend the two ceremonies to make this one its own and unique and theirs

Bran spoke again, “Sandor, you may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.” Sandor let the white cloak unfurl and Jaime let out a shocked gasp. He hadn’t seen a Kingsguard cloak in years, and it brought a wash of memories back for him. Sandor unfastened the simple grey cloak Sansa had arrived in, and draped his former white cloak over her, letting everyone who was gathered see the Stark sigil.

“Lord and Lady Stark, a prayer,” Bran said and Sandor and Sansa clasped hands to kneel before the weirwood heart tree. After a moment they rose, and Bran smiled at them. “Welcome to House Stark, Sandor. You may kiss your bride.”

Sandor grabbed Sansa and hauled her against him, seeing the sparkle of joy in her eye. He leaned down and pressed his lips against hers and tried not to moan as he felt her wiggle against him.

Pulling back slightly, he growled a bit at her, “Careful little bird, or you’ll miss the feast, and everyone will think you’ve married a beast when I take you back to our rooms.”

Sansa laughed prettily. “Don’t jape, husband,” and saw how he jolted a bit at that.

“Aye, little bird, I’m your husband,” he told her, wonderment in his voice.

Sansa grabbed his hand and turned to the small crowd gathered. They had lost so many in the war against the Night King that the stores were full, even if winter hasn’t quite let go of its grip on the North yet. Sansa had planned a feast to rival the one the night they had won, and everyone was invited. It was a joyous occasion in a region that had very little to celebrate over the past decade.

Sandor let Sansa lead him into the great hall and sat them at the head table. Sandor thought back to another feast where he hadn’t been afforded such a position after they had beaten back the army of the dead. But he had watched her that night all the same.

He tried not to feel like he was on display, and instead tried hard to think that the people here were happy for her. They all loved her, and Sansa glowed, both pregnancy and the wedding making her appear almost otherworldly in her beauty. He still couldn’t believe she was his. The first time a serving girl called him Lord Stark he didn’t even respond until Sansa giggled and grabbed his hand. Realizing that the girl was talking to him, he grunted she set a plate of food down in front of him.

He gave Sansa a sardonic grin. “It’s going to take some getting used to,” he told her, and she nodded. Joining them were Brienne and Pod, Sam and Gilly, Bran, Jaime, Lord Royce and Gendry. Sansa spent some time explaining to him that she was teaching Gendry what it meant to be a lord, but she had doubts he’d ever really want to go to Storm’s End. Sansa leaned in and whispered that he could barely read and hardly write. Sandor felt a wave of pity for the man. He’d at least grown up with a Maester in their house and while Sandor would never be a scholar when required, he could do his sums and write adequately.

Wine and mead flowed, and Sandor spent most of the time looking around the hall. These were now his people. His and Sansa’s. They seemed happy, if weary, still recovering from the battle that had happened so recently. He liked the Northerners and knew if there were anywhere, he had to spend the rest of his days, this place suited him just fine. He knew that he would have to learn about the Houses; which ones still existed and which ones were now gone. He suspected that would be true for the south as well.

When he looked at the table, he jolted to realize that the heads of five of the seven kingdoms now sat in the halls of Winterfell if you counted Samwell Tarly for the Reach. Gendry had the Stormlands, Sansa the North, Lord Royce the Vale, Jaime the Westerlands and Sam.

Any other ruler would be loath to allow such a consolidated show of power to happen, but the black dragon meant that no one dared rebel against the new Queen. Still, it made him uneasy seeing such a concentration of power here at their table. He’d have to discuss this with Sansa in the coming days. And what they would say to those in the south if they realized just who was loyal to his wife.

Sandor had only been back for two days and hadn’t yet learned to read Sansa’s cues, but even he could see when she appeared to grow tired. Before anyone could call for a bedding ceremony, he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Time for bed, little bird,” and saw her smile, grateful to leave the feast.

She stood and drug him to his feet, to address those in the hall for the first time as the Lord and Lady of Winterfell. He stood mostly like a statue but scowled at anyone who would dare question her decision to marry him. Most had heard what he had done and had come to accept them. He knew that there was one house, Glover, that had refused to come when Sansa had called the Northern banners, and they would have to be dealt with.

Then Sansa tugged on his hand and they made their way back to their rooms. Her maids had turned down the bed and stoked the fire, leaving some bread and cheese for them later. Thankfully, no one was there when they entered the room. Sandor wanted the pleasure of undressing her, himself.

Sansa sighed happily now that everything was done. She was finally wed to a man that she loved. It was hard to believe that the scary warrior that had ridden into Winterfell all those years ago would prove to be the best man for her, but it was true.

Sansa folded the white cloak and moved to put it in her chest, where she had kept it for years.

“Why did you keep it?” Sandor asked, his voice curious and not angry.

“In bad times it reminded me of the one person who never hurt me,” she told her seriously.

He grunted at that. Tonight, was not the night to relive past horrors. When Sansa rolled her shoulders, Sandor moved towards her and pressed his large hands to her back, working at the knots and kinks there. Sansa moaned, long and low and Sandor felt all the blood drain to his cock.

“Fucking hell, wife, if you keep making that sound, I won’t last,” he rasped to her and leaned down to nip at her neck. Sansa offered it to him and moaned when he sucked on her. He had briefly wondered if she would want to lie with him again, but then he pushed those negative thoughts away. They had said they loved each other and sworn vows to each other before he gods. He had to believe she wanted him here in their bed. But just in case, he turned her in his arms and met her eyes.

“We don’t have to do anything,” he told her and saw her frown. Before she could get the wrong idea, he continued. “I want you more than ever Sansa. I will always want you. But both this marriage and your last were not of your choosing and laying with me, you will always have a choice.”

She had told him he needed to explain things to her, and he would try. Even when his words felt clunky and awkward. He must have done something correctly, because she smiled brilliantly at him and cupped his face.

“I chose you, Sandor,” she told him. “And I want you in my bed. I want you every way a wife wants a husband.” He saw the blush stain her cheeks and couldn’t help but how innocent she looked, despite the babe growing in her belly. He nodded at her and then turned her so he could undo the laces on her dress, pulling it down and letting it pool at her feet. Clad only in her shift and stockings, she turned and did the same for him, running her hands over him in the process. The first night they had been together had a keen edge of despair, both of them knowing he was leaving. But now he was here, and he would never leave again. He was hers and she was his. Overcome by that thought, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips. “Mine,” he said and saw a look of possessiveness enter her eyes.

She nodded. “Yours, Sandor. Always and forever yours.”

Her words lit a fire in him, and his large hands tore at her shift until she was naked in front of him. It was the first time he’d seen her stomach like this, and Sandor sunk to the knees, cupping it reverently. He placed a gentle kiss on the small swell and felt his eyes fill with tears. His child, safe and growing in her womb. Whomever they were, they’d be a Stark, belonging to the greatest house in the history of Westeros, a descendant of Kings.

“Sansa,” he said and looked up to meet her eyes. She saw the tears there and felt the corresponding ones in hers. She’d heard all the stories about what he had done for Arya. She knew he’d make a wonderful father, if he could get over his own doubts. And she knew he loved this child as much as she did. It was everything she ever wanted. He scooped her up and deposited her on their bed, and Sansa laughed and let her legs fall open. Sandor grunted in appreciation and torn his tunic off his body and shucked off his breeches. He wanted nothing between them this night. His large hands found the top of her stockings and gently rolled them down her legs, and he pressed kisses to her thighs, the backs of her knees and took each one of her feet in his hands and pressed on her arches. Sansa moaned at that, and he vowed he would share the work with her, no matter how miserable. She couldn’t keep pushing herself this hard.

When she was finally gloriously naked in front of him, he simply took her in. She was the maiden and the mother reincarnated he was sure, and he knew he’d never seen anything more perfect. It thrilled him that she didn’t try to cover herself or hide her scars. He hardly saw them and truthfully, they did nothing to detract from her beauty.

“Wife,” he growled, loving how that sounded on his voice. Then he leaned down and held her legs apart gently and smelled her. He’d dreamed about her since the moment he had left her. He loved her smell and when he swiped his tongue through her folds, the gush of wetness that greeted him made him harden further. She was soaked. And he loved it. Sandor growled again and feasted on her. Sansa writhed on him and whimpered, thrusting her hands into his hair to pin him there. She felt his beard scape along her thighs and knew she would have redden marks there tomorrow. Should couldn’t care less; she just needed him to keep going. When she peaked the first time he grunted in appreciation, but he wanted more. She tasted different than he remembered, and he knew it was due to her pregnancy and it thrilled him.

“Once more, little bird,” he told her and worked a finger into her. Sansa wigged and bucked, and he grinned at her enthusiasm. Then he focused solely on her, feeling everything, taking note of when she moaned and what she liked best. He was determined that every day he would bring her pleasure until she cried his name again.

“Sandor,” she panted afterwards. He was still perched between her legs, and for the first time in so long, he was completely content. A small smile adorned his ruined face and Sansa looked into his eyes.

“Come here,” she said, and he crawled up her body, ensuring he kept his large body from putting too much weight on her. When he got to her face she reached up and drew him down to her, not caring that his beard and lips would taste like her.

“Husband,” she said and kissed him, pushing her tongue into his mouth, running her hands over his massive shoulders and down his huge arms that kept him suspended above her. His hair brushed against her cheek and she giggled softly.

“Little bird,” he said, tracing a finger down her face. He still couldn’t quite believe he was here with her. Sansa canted her hips and sought him out, and he grinned at her enthusiasm and rubbed himself against her. Leaning down to kiss her again, he pulled back before he thrust into her, groaning as she enveloped him. He thought he’d remembered what she felt like, but he hadn’t truly. He knew at that moment that she was home. She had always been his home. Everything he’d done, every battle he’d ever fought had led to her.

As he moved in her, he held her gaze and saw all the love she had for him. Sandor had never been loved like that, except perhaps by his sister, and that was so long ago, the memories floated away like smoke whenever he tried to hold onto them.

“Fuck Sansa, I love you,” he rasped to her and saw the tears come to her eyes.

“I love you Sandor,” she told him and gripped his arms harder as his hips sped up.

“I won’t last,” he grunted. It had been too long, and she felt too good.

“Then don’t,” she told him, and he moved slightly so he could play with her and bring her with him once more.

“One more song, little bird,” he told her and stroked deeper and rubbed at her just right. Soon enough, Sansa panted and screamed his name and he thrust twice more and spent deep inside her, grunting as he finished. Careful of his weight and her state, he had enough presence of mind to roll of her and drag her into his arms as Sansa curled up into him. She threaded her hands through the fur on his chest, and he remembered how taken she had seemed with it during their one night together.

“This whole night had been lovely,” she said softly to him and he rumbled his agreement. He liked the simplicity of the northern weddings, and he enjoyed bedding his new wife even more. Soon enough, Sansa’s eyes began to drop, and he turned her so he could cradle her stomach with his hands and hold her pinned to his chest. Leaning down he pressed one last kiss to her neck.

“I love you little bird,” he told her, and she mumbled back her reply. Content that he hadn’t messed anything up, Sandor let himself slide into sleep, his wife and his child safe in his arms.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*************************~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jaime stood beside the Hound and watched him marry the most eligible woman in Westeros. For a brief moment, he wished his father could be here to see this. Tywin Lannister had tried so hard to secure Sansa Stark sure that she was the Key to the North. Turned out his father was correct about that, although the ability to bring her into the Lannister fold had backfired rather spectacularly. The Old Lion would have been better off to marry her himself Jaime thought, then shook himself from his musings.

In any stead, Sansa Stark was everything Daenerys Targaryen was not. Sane, loved by her people, competent at ruling, well educated in Westeros customs, and she didn’t have a pet dragon to bend people to her subservience. Jaime felt a particular lack of accomplishment that he had sullied his reputation twenty years ago to prevent one mad king from burning Kings Landing to the ground, only to be unable to prevent his daughter from doing the exact same thing.

Jaime wondered briefly if the Dragon Queen would regret her hasty decision to order Sandor Clegane to marry Sansa Stark; or if she did it because she saw it was a punishment for the upstart Northern woman. Either way, the jape was on her, as Sandor and Sansa clearly loved each other. Standing next to the man who’d spent more time guarding his son and his sister than he had, he wondered how it came to pass that they were the only two left from that time. Them and Tyrion.

Briefly, Jaime wondered how things were going in Kings Landing. Very few rumors had spread this far North, and as far as everyone knew, Dany was still the Queen of Westeros and Tyrion her hand. When Sansa appeared between Brienne and Pod, Jaime knew she was stunning. Unfortunately for him, he had eyes only for the woman’s sworn shield. He knew that him and Brienne needed to marry soon to avoid angering their new Queen, but he’d had a hard time imagining the two of them getting married with a ceremony in the Faith of the Seven the way that Brienne felt about him.  
Jaime must have been deeper into his cups than he realized, because suddenly Brienne slid in to sit beside him.

“I’ll marry in the way of the North,” she told him without preamble.

Jaime jerked and looked at her. It was uncanny how she knew exactly what he was thinking about. Knowing every time, he opened his mouth around her these days he made things worse, Jaime just sat there in silence, which wasn’t exactly uncomfortable.

“Is what you told Lady Sansa true?” Brienne asked him after a time, and Jaime’s head whipped around to hers. He wasn’t sure what exactly she was talking about specifically, but everything he’d said to Sansa had been true.

“Every word,” he said.

“You thought her pregnant?” Brienne asked.

Jaime nodded.

“Was she?”

A beat of silence. “No.”

Brienne heard the heartache in his voice, only this time she was sure it was for the child that was not coming. She remembered what she’d thought, yesterday in the yard, that the Lannister name would fall to Tyrion to pass on. But she wondered.

“And you want children?” Brienne asked. So many men couldn’t have cared less for babes, but Jaime had destroyed everything he’d worked so hard to achieve for the chance to save his unborn child.

The room had faded, and it was only them. Jaime swallowed hard and looked at Brienne. She knew almost all of his worst secrets and she had stood by him, forced him to become a better man. Sansa had told him he had to do whatever it took to win her back.

“I had three children,” he told her quietly and saw the shock run over her face, before she put the pieces together. It could hardly be considered a secret any longer, still, it wasn’t exactly common knowledge and Brienne paid little attention to politics.

“Oh Jaime,” she said, her heart breaking for him. She knew what had happened to all three of Cersei Lannister’s children.

Jaime swallowed hard. “Before Myrcella died, we were on our way back from Dorne. She told me that she knew I was her father, and that it made her happy.” Jaime paused. “And then she died in my arms.”

Brienne couldn’t help it, she reached out and grasped his on hand. He let her, although he didn’t meet her eyes. He wasn’t telling her out of pity.

“So, to answer your question, yes I want children, but I understand if that is not an option for me any longer,” he told her, and she saw the sad acceptance on his face.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, her tone harsher than intended.

He shrugged. “What I told you was true. I’ve done so many hateful things to get back to Cersei. The thought of her dying at the hands of the Dragon Queen along with my child… How do I tell the woman I currently love that I had to go and save the one I loved my entire life?”

Brienne banged a hand on the table. “For fuck sakes Jaime, like that,” she told him, anger and hurt flashing in her eyes. He startled a bit at her display, then grimaced.

“How can a man that has survived so much, be so stupid?” she asked him, and he felt a small smile tug at his lips. This was what he was used to. Brienne berating him for his inadequacies; although unlike his father, her words always held a note of exasperated caring in them.

“Being with Cersei did not exactly enlighten me on what a normal woman wants or needs,” he tried to explain. He knew she hated to talk about his sister, but she had to understand. “Cersei would have done anything for power, Brienne. Anything. She murdered people, tortured people. She blew up the Great Sept of Baelor with wildfire. And I stayed with her. Because she was all I had ever know and I loved her. I always knew what she was, and I loved her anyways. And that made me as much a monster as her,” Jaime told her and took a long sip of ale.

He looked away and then back at her. “Then I met you and you forced me to be a better person. I never wanted to be, to be honest. It wasn’t like I set out on a quest for redemption, or some other such nonsense,” he told her and saw her brow from. “It is impossible to be around you and not have your damn sense of honor rub off on everyone around you.” He almost grumbled that last line.

Brienne grunted and rose.

“I will speak with Lady Sansa in the morning,” she told him.

Jaime nodded. Before she could turn and leave, he called out to her.

“Do you want children, Brienne?”

She stopped. No one had ever asked her that question before, most assuming she was too brutish and too ugly to ever lie with a man in order to get with child. But deep down, the thought of a blond-haired son or daughter, someone who loved her, someone whom she could mould to be a good person was one of her most secretive desires. She spun back and looked at Jaime.

“Yes,” and then she turned and took her leave.

Jaime sunk back into his seat, drunk and warm and content with how the day had gone. She was still wary of him, and rightfully so, but he could see her begin to thaw. He was lost in thoughts of having children with her, one day and them running through the halls of Casterly Rock. It would be unlike when he was a child there, because as honor bound as Brienne was, she was full of love and would never raise their children to be anything but the best possible people. He imagined a son, fair haired and tall, training with his mother, and a daughter who wanted to snuggle on his lap, content to be with her father and safe from the swords and fighting. Or perhaps their children were all destined to be fighters, knowing who their parents would be. For the first time since Jaime had rode away from Winterfell, he felt a small burst of hope thrum though his body. Perhaps there was still a chance he could have everything he wanted.


	7. Chapter 7

Sandor woke up the day after his wedding to an armful of warm wife and a cold, wet nose pushed up against his naked arse. That startled him fully awake and he turned, unfortunately waking Sansa in the process, to see a massive fucking wolf sniffing at him. Red eyes met grey, and though Sandor had always had an affinity for dogs, this was not how he’d envisioned being introduced to Jon Snow’s direwolf.

“Fucking hell,” Sandor muttered and then slowly swung his legs over the bed trying not to make any sudden movements, not wanting to be breakfast to the beast the day after he’d gotten everything he wanted.

Sansa’s giggle belayed the seriousness of the situation and he chanced a look at her.

“What the fuck, little bird?” he breathed and looked back to the beast. He could see the wolf had suffered in the war against the dead, his one ear almost completely gone.

“It’s just Ghost,” she said. “He’s been hunting.” Then she gave a soft whistle and Sandor swore the beast smiled before he heaved his huge body onto their bed. Sandor grunted with the impact, as the wolf situated himself between him and Sansa and laid his massive head onto her stomach.

Sandor shook his head. Never in a million years would this have been how he had imagined the night after his wedding. To be fair, he’d never imagined being married, but still.

Sansa laughed again and patted the space beside her. Grunting, Sandor settled back into his bed, giving the wolf a sneer and a growl of his own. The great beast had better figure that out. He was the one who’d put a pup in Sansa; and he could protect her. Still, it was something to see, a giant wolf in his bed with his wife who was completely at ease with him.

Sansa rubbed her hands through his soft fur. “He misses Jon,” she explained softly.

Sandor remembered what had happened to Sansa’s wolf, and felt that familiar ball of hot shame rise up in him that he had been there for some of the worst moments of her life. _Fucking Lannister cunts_, he thought.

“When a direwolf bonds with someone, they become part of them,” she continued, indoctrinating him into the lore of his new house. “Him and Jon have been together through so much,” she told him. “But knowing what happened in Kings Landing, I’m glad he left him here.”

Ghost swung his head and dropped it onto Sandor’s chest, and Sansa smiled.

“He’s accepted you as part of the pack,” she told Sandor and he grunted at that.

Slowly he raised his hand, and Ghost sniffed it once, before allowing Sandor to thread his fingers through his soft white fur. Sandor understood just how deep a bond between a man and beast could be. Stranger had been loyal to him for years, and riding North on him again, Sandor knew that horse was as much a part of him as his sword.

“Good boy,” Sandor’s deep voice rumbled, and Ghost lolled out his tongue before swiping it across Sandor’s scarred face. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the animal, even though he was probably preventing him from having his new wife the morning after their wedding. As if he’d read his thoughts, Ghost hopped down and curled up in front of the fire. If he’d been hunting his belly would be full, and he’d sleep the day away. Once he was gone, Sansa snuggled into Sandor, once again running her fingers through his fur now. Apparently, she didn’t mind hairy beasts in her bed, which suited Sandor just fine.

She titled her head up to kiss him, and said sweetly, “Good morning, husband.”

Sandor let the smile come. Here in their bedroom, he had to learn to let down that thick wall of anger and sarcasm and hate that he projected out to so many. He needed to be different with Sansa, better and gentler and softer if he could.

“Wife,” he rumbled back, and she smiled at him. Sandor laid back and let her run her hands over his body. This was so markedly different from the last time they’d been together. Yes, there was a world of work that awaited them; but there always would be as Wardens of the North. But now they both knew that he was going nowhere, and even the demands of ruling could wait for them this morning. Content to let his wife explore, Sandor threaded his hands behind his head and watched as she mapped his body.

She seemed fascinated by his scars; he had to have as many as she did, but these ones he was mostly proud of. They’d been earned in the countless battles and men he had fought over the years. If she asked, he didn’t even know if he would be able to tell her where they had all came from, some were that old. Sandor knew that he was lacking in a lot of ways, especially to be a husband to a woman like Sansa, but the one thing he would never doubt was his form. He was muscle upon muscle, and he took a certain amount of pride in what his naked body looked like. His cock was heavy and hard, his balls full and aching and he knew that he pleased her by the scent of her arousal, and she stroked and petted and kissed him.

He took a chance and reached down to test her readiness and found her dripping. When she was paying particular attention to his lower abdomen, he grabbed her and sat her astride him, and smirked at the tiny squeak she let out. When she realized she was naked, and sitting on him like she would a horse, her brow furrowed and a part of Sandor swelled with the knowledge that for all her time spent with her previous husband, she was still very unskilled in the bedroom.

“Ride me,” he told her and moved her so that she was lined up with him. She simply looked at him and he lifted her up a bit and then let her sink down on him. She braced her hands against his chest and let out a startled, “ohhhhh,” as she realized the power such a position gave her. Then he saw a wicked gleam come into her eyes and she canted her hips forward, before rising up slightly and sinking back down onto him. She let out a breathy moan and dug her hands into his chest. He grunted at the slight pain, the sensation only enhancing the feeling of coupling like this. She took her time, but eventually found her rhythm and Sandor had to do everything in his power not to finish too soon, loving as he watched her ride and grind on him. He felt her body slick with sweat, and a small drop ran down her arse cheeks, which he had started to grip. Eventually, she started to pant, and she finally looked her eyes with him, and moaned, “Please.”

“Want to peak, Little Bird?” he asked. He wanted her to be confidant and commanding in their bedroom; to ask for what she needed, and this was the first step.

She grunted and nodded, and he let his fingers find her nub. He rubbed at her as she ground down on him, flexing and tightening on him until she shattered and broke apart, screaming his name. He was sure half the fucking castle heard her peak, and it made him swell with pride that everyone would know he could please his wife. He thrust furiously into her and felt himself tighten before he joined her. They were sticky, sweaty and covered in each other’s spendings and Sandor had never been more sated in his entire life.

Sansa had collapsed onto his chest and rubbed herself against him, exhausted and happy. She had never known a woman could have a man like that, and she wondered what other ways they might explore.

Even though it was the day after their wedding, Sansa eventually rose and called for a bath and breakfast. She would allow them this indulgence, but then they needed to meet with Jaime and Brienne. They needed to get them married before Dany flew North and burnt them all to a crisp. They could no longer tiptoe around how angry Brienne was at the Kingslayer.

“Call the Maester as well,” Sandor grunted as he lowered himself into the massive tub, thinking he’d never had so many fucking baths at any one time in his life.

“Sam? But why?” Sansa said, her pretty features confused as she approached the tub. She was going to wash him again, but this time as her husband. Sandor had other ideas and hauled her into the bath with him, water sloshing on the floor as Sansa squeaked her surprise.

“Because,” he said, nuzzling her neck and nipping at her ear, hearing her let out a breathy moan. “It occurred to me at dinner last night, that you have five of the heads of seven kingdoms sitting at your table. Loyal to you, wife.”

Sandor was fascinated with the cloth she had dropped in the water and had picked it up to run over her body. He’d never washed a woman before, and it was intoxicating to trace all the lines and curves of her ripening body.

Sansa was lost in thought, thinking about what Sandor had said. She realized he was correct, and a ball of worry settled into her stomach. Sandor saw when she had figured it out.

“Jaime for the West, Lord Royce for the Vale, Sam for the Reach and Gendry for Storm’s End,” Sansa muttered. “Yara and the Iron Born were never truly considered part of the seven Kingdoms, and I’ve heard rumours about a new Prince in Dorne. And my Uncle holds the Riverlands, so that gives us six,” she said.

Sandor grunted. Six of the seven Kingdoms, loyal to this woman in his arms. His blood ran cold at the thought.

“You need to get both Jaime and Sam married before she can use them to her advantage,” he told her, and she nodded before she turned.

She cocked her head at him, “Since when did you become so adapt at playing the game of thrones?” She asked him. Her words weren’t meant to mock or ridicule; she was honestly curious.

He sighed and stopped washing her, content to have her settle back against him.

“Watched a lot. Spent a lot of time around the Great Lion, and the Lannister’s. People never see the guard, only the fancy nobleman,” he told her. Just because Sandor hated liars it didn’t mean he was ignorant of how the game itself was played.

Eventually they got clean, although Sandor’s hand couldn’t help but wandered down her body. He was fascinated by her breasts and how they bobbed in the water. All of these experiences were new for him. He’d only ever lain with whores and once he’d spent, he would leave their room, having no need to linger.

This was entirely different. He’d never be with another woman again except for Sansa, and her body was a wonder to him. He couldn’t even imagine how much more it would change as the baby grew larger, and for the thousandth time, he thanked whatever gods she prayed to, that he’d made it back to her.

When they had finally dressed and eaten, Sansa asked both couples as well as Bran, Pod, Gendry and Lord Royce to meet them in the larger family solar. She had decided when Arya and Jon left that her rooms would be for her use only; private and a refuge from the work of the day.

Sandor stood by her side, as large and imposing, as always, but relaxed. Even though the quarters for the Lord and Lady of Winterfell were situated well into the family rooms of the keep, Sansa and he hadn’t exactly been quiet in their coupling, and everyone in the solar had rooms near them.

It was Jaime that gave Sandor the biggest grin, followed by Gendry and Pod.

Sansa tried hard not to roll her eyes at men and their antics, but it was hard. Sandor took their japing in a relatively good-natured fashion, and Sansa had to wonder if he were secretly proud of his skill in the marriage bed. Then all lighthearted thoughts fled.

“Those of us in this room represent five of the seven Kingdoms. My Uncle holds the sixth,” Sansa said without preamble.

Shocked gasps were heard before everyone looked at each other. The great houses of Westeros had been decimated from years of warfare and infighting. There were still minor houses left; Brienne’s house technically belonged to the Stormlands, and Pod was a Payne of the West. But by and large, those gathered here today, represented the greatest threat to Daenerys Targaryen and her new rule.

Sansa turned to Bran. “Can you tell us anything?” she almost pleaded to him.

“It will be dealt with, but the marriages must take place. Tonight,” he said and looked at Jaime and Brienne and then to Sam and Gilly.

Sam grasped Gilly’s hand and nodded. “We’d like to be married in front of the weirwood tree, if that’s ok with you,” he said to the two Stark siblings.

Sansa smiled brightly at him and nodded and then asked Gilly if she had everything she needed. Gilly nodded, overcome with the friendship that had developed between her and Sansa.

Brienne coughed and looked at the group. “We would also like to be married in the Godswood,” she stated. Everyone nodded, knowing things were not settled between the two knights. Sansa observed them for a time and thought that perhaps the hatred had lessened between them. She hoped so. Having experienced what a marriage could be like with a man who loved her, she could only hope for the same for her friend.

“Then it is settled,” Sansa said, going to dismiss those from the room to prepare. Two feasts in two days would be a huge task for the kitchens, and Sansa needed to make sure they had all the help they needed.

“Wait,” Bran said, and everyone turned to look at him. “When it is done, when Jon has done what he needs to do, it is imperative that we meet at Winterfell. The Iron Born, the Dornish and our Uncle can come here,” Bran stated, and everyone nodded, not really knowing what he meant, but hoping it would mean an end to the Dragon Queen. “Summon our cousin, Robin Arryn from the Vale, Lord Royce,” Bran stated, and the old man nodded, before everyone departed.

Sandor stayed behind with Sansa. There were things he had seen on his ride yesterday that he wanted to investigate further, but the last thing he wanted was to leave her again and have her be angry with him.

“I need to look at the ground outside the castle,” he told her when she approached him after everyone had left. He cupped her cheek. “I promise I will be back in time for the weddings,” he told her and saw her nod and smile grace her face.

“Thank you for telling me Sandor,” she said. “You are the Lord of Winterfell now; you don’t need my permission.”

He snorted at that before he barked out a laugh. “I may have the title, but the power is all yours, Little Bird.” She wondered if she should be offended by such a remark but saw no malice in his face. Against all odds, she’d married a man who didn’t want her for her titles or the power and influence they would give her husband. It was stunning really. She’d been used her entire life for what her name, and her womb could do for a man and his house, and now she had a husband who couldn’t care less about any of that. She beamed at him and leaned up and kissed him once more, before he took his leave. She liked kissing her husband wherever she wanted, and she saw he enjoyed it as well. Whoever would have thought at what a good husband Sandor Clegane would be?

As he walked to the stables, Ghost fell in beside him and Sandor sent the wolf a look.

“Need another run?” he asked and let his hand wander down to pet the giant beast. If Sandor thought it odd that he had bonded so quickly with the animal, he didn’t let his mind stay on those thoughts. Ghost had accepted him and that was fine with him. He’d always preferred animals to people.

Soon enough he was back on Stranger, with his northern cloak draped around his shoulders and a huge direwolf at his side. By anyone’s standards he was the most imposing sight anyone had seen in the North since Jon had left. He was a massive man, a proven warrior and the new Lord of Winterfell and he inspired confidence in all of those who saw him. He would have scoffed at that had anyone said it to his face, but luckily for them and him both, no one dared approach him.

Sandor had seen small houses on the outer perimeter that he needed to ensure had no dead in them, so Sansa could begin to have them resettled. He knew they would need to visit Wintertown and the closer keeps to Winterfell, to reassure the people that the North was safe and secure again but wondered how much she would be able to travel in her condition. He knew almost nothing about what it meant to be pregnant, save for the dogs that they had been in charge of as the kennel masters of Casterly Rock.

The deeper Sandor pressed into the forests outside Winterfell, the darker the day became. Knowing he’d reached the limit of where he could go today, he went to turn for home, when Ghost whined and paced, not letting Stranger turn. Sandor hadn’t known the wolf to do anything of the sort before, so he slid off his horse, and watched as Ghost pressed deeper into the forest. A shiver ran over Sandor’s spine, until Ghost stopped beside an old log covered with moss and looked at him. Sandor grumbled.

“If I’m late for the weddings, I’m blaming you.” Ghost whined.

“I’ll not have her fucking pissed at me because you’ve got a yen,” Sandor kept talking as he approached the wolf.

When Sandor stepped up and over the log, and kneeled down beside the wolf, he saw two small pups in the soft moss.

“Seven fucking hells, boy, is that what I think it is?” Sandor breathed.

Ghost whined and bumped his head against Sandor, before he reached his head down and picked each pup up and put them in Sandor’s massive hands. Sandor was overcome with the emotion of the moment, and looked around, before startling and falling back on his arse. Standing on the other side of the little clearing was the largest direwolf he’d ever seen. She had to be almost one and half times the size of Ghost. Swallowing hard, he saw the wolf bow her head to him, before she turned and looped away. Stunned by what had just happened, Sandor secured the pups in his saddle bags, before turning back for Winterfell. There were so few things in this world that had the ability to shock him. Sansa’s love. The chance to be a father. And now a chance to replace a direwolf puppy that Sansa had lost.

A grin broke out across his face. He’d had no wedding gift to give to Sansa, but he thought this just might make up for the lack of jewels he had to offer her.

When he rode back into the yard, someone must have alerted him to his approach, because she was waiting for him in the yard, but this time there was no look of anger on her face and he was grateful for that. He was still learning this whole Lord of Winterfell and husband business.

She smiled brightly as he swung down off his horse, and Ghost bumped against her. Pod, Brienne, Jaime and Gendry had been sparing nearby, so they were also present and turned to watch Sansa and Sandor.

When she walked up to him, she tilted her head for a kiss, and even though there were people everywhere, he indulged her, hauling her against his massive form. He loved that she was his and he could do this with her. In front of everyone.

“I’ve got something for you wife,” Sandor said to her, whispering in her ear. She loved the low rumble of his voice. Sansa, still cradled in his huge arms, pushed back slightly and looked at his face. She had never seen him grin like that, as if he had something priceless for her. She knew that Sandor didn’t have much gold and couldn’t imagine what he had found in the wilderness, but whatever it was, the fact that he was thinking of her warmed her heart.

She pressed another kiss to his lips, thanking him already.

“You don’t even know what it is,” he said, teasing her gently. He would never tire of her goodness and how much she loved him.

She blushed, knowing that she was deeply in love with her husband. Sandor could probably give her a stick and she’d think it was the greatest present ever. He kissed her once more, and then stepped away from her and up to Stranger who bumped at him, as if he knew something important happening.

When he reached into the saddlebags and pulled out the first pup, Sansa’s mouth dropped open and she let out a cry of joy. He placed the littlest pup in her arms, and she cuddled it to her breast, tears running down her face.

“She looks just like Lady,” Sansa said, overcome with emotion. “How?” she asked him wonderment in her voice, and he pointed to Ghost. When he brought of the other pup, this one larger and white and red, Sansa almost collapsed. She had missed her wolf like she missed a limb, and somehow, Sandor and Ghost had given her back her wolf.

“One must be for Bran,” she whispered and knew instinctively that the red pup was his. Sandor nodded, having thought the same thing. “Oh Sandor,” she said, undone by such a precious gift, “this is incredible. They are incredible.” Her eyes shone with tears of joy.

“Aye, they’re for you,” he told her, pleased that she had finally been reunited with her beloved wolf. Sandor didn’t believe in many things, but no one could convince him this wasn’t Lady reborn.

“I think I’ll call her Hope,” Sansa whispered into the pup’s fur who was busy wiggling and licking Sansa’s face. Just then, a steward brought Bran to them, and Sansa turned to her brother.

“Bran look,” Sansa said and for the first time in a long time, saw a smile of pure joy cross her brother’s face. In that moment, he wasn’t Bran the three-eyed-raven, he was Bran Stark, her little brother. She placed the other pup in his lap, and the wolf immediately reached up to lick his new master. Bran laughed and threaded his fingers through the pup’s fur.

“Thank you, Sandor,” Bran said, and the big man nodded at the two Stark siblings.

Everyone else in the yard stood there in stunned silence. They had all heard the stories about the Stark children and their pet direwolves, but to see it in real life was stunning. Sansa laughed and took Sandor by the hand, telling everyone gathered they needed to get ready for the weddings. The joy on her face made Sansa radiant, and she cuddled the pup to her breast as she took Sandor’s hand and they walked to their rooms.

“If you carry her, she’ll be spoiled,” he warned her, and she shushed him. In his world dogs had a place. And they were not in the bedchamber. Clearly his wife had other plans.

“She’s just a baby,” she crooned to her wolf. “She needs to know who her mama is,” Sansa said, and the pup squirmed to lick her face again. Then Sansa shot him a dazzling grin. “And you’re her Papa, Sandor.” He stopped and looked at her.

And then Sandor realized that he would be sharing a bed with two wolves instead of just one for the foreseeable future. He shook his head, unable to be mad at such a turn of events. He’d remembered the devastation when Ned Stark had taken Lady’s head, and he’d finally righted that wrong. And the sight of his wife so happy, so in love with the little wolf was enough for him.

“Come on wife, let’s get you both settled,” and she kissed him and entered their bedchambers to get ready for their friends’ weddings.

_The Godswood_

Sansa had dressed Sandor in some of his new clothes, humming happily when she fastened his northern cloak. She ran her hands down her massive chest. He saw the desire flare in her eyes and chuckled deeply. Leaning down her pressed a kiss to her lips, the tugged on her ear and sucked a bit. Sansa moaned and pressed herself closer.

“Later, Little Bird,” he rumbled to her. She was all but panting, eyes glazed over. He barked out a laugh and grabbed her hand.

“Let’s go wife, before we are late.” Sandor had been married for a day and it was quite possibly the best day of his entire life. He had expected that killing his brother would have made him feel like that, but instead it was Sansa. He should have known, holding her hand as they made their way, once again, to the Stark family godswood. It was amazing what a difference a day made. Today Sandor had no nerves just contentment as he walked with his wife out into the cold, dark night.

Bran, Sandor and Gendry stood at the front by the weirwood tree, along with Jaime and Sam. Both women had decided to approach the men together, with Sansa and Pod leading them to the wierwood tree. It would be a most unusual set of weddings as they were perfunctory; everyone knew that they were doing this to avoid more bloodshed and please the Mad Queen. Whereas last night, Northerners had gathered to witness their beloved Lady marry a man she loved, tonight the only ones in the Godswood were the nobles who were doing everything to avoid more bloodshed for the realm.

Gilly and Sam obviously loved each other, but Gilly had never thought to be married ever, and certainty not in the southern way. Sam still held out hope of going back to the Citadel and continuing his learning as a Maester, but even he knew he would most likely be called upon to take up the mantle as Lord of Horn Hill. Still, when they exchanged their vows and Gilly accepted Sam as her husband, there was a soft cheer and a few tears. Sam had remained a loyal and true friend of Jon Snow’s even in the face of angering him, and those present knew that the learned man had tried to fight bravely on the field against the dead.

For her wedding, Brienne had insisted upon wearing her armour. She would not be made to wear a dress and be mocked, not even by those she considered her family. Jaime also donned his armour, his Lannister colours bold in the grey North. If he was forced into this marriage because he had to become the Lord of Casterly Rock, well, then he would look every inch that Lord tonight.

Bran’s voice rang out and asked, “Who comes before the Old Gods this night?

Sansa responded, her voice loud and clear, “Brienne, of House Tarth, comes here to be wed. A woman, trueborn and noble, and a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

Jaime felt a slow role of heat at hearing her title. He was a man who loved strong women. And Brienne was one of the strongest of all. Whether she liked it or not, by all the laws of Westeros she would be his. He couldn’t help the small flare of pride and joy he felt at that.

“Jaime of House Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock, a man trueborn and noble. Who gives her?”

“Sansa of House Stark, Wardeness of the North, Lady of Winterfell and her dear friend.” Sansa smiled warmly at Brienne.

Bran spoke again, “Ser Brienne, do you take this man?”

Brienne nodded, her face set in an emotionless mask.

Jaime’s heart broke that he had taken this from her. If he ever were to win her love again, he vowed here and now before the heart tree that he would wed her again, in the great sept at Casterly Rock, where his father had married his mother. They would swear the southern vows, and forsake all others, pledging to be each other’s for all time. But that was only a dream in an uncertain future. For now, this was all they had.

“I take this man,” Brienne said, and her voice was strong and true.

Jaime took a chance and reached out and grasped her hand, which she allowed. He shot her a brief smile and saw her lips twitch just a bit. There would be no bedding, of that he was sure, until Bran’s voice rang out. “You must consummate your marriage, Ser Brienne and Ser Jaime. Until that is done, it can be annulled.”

Both swallowed hard at that statement but knew better than to question the crippled boy. Brienne nodded stoically, although her heart pounded.

The small group left the godswood and once more made their way to the hall for a feast. Like the night before, food, wine and mead was plentiful. Tonight, Sansa had insisted on bringing her new direwolf pup to the table and Sandor gave her a look.

“She’s hungry. And lonely,” Sansa said primly. Then she pouted prettily, and Sandor almost rolled his eyes at that, before he leaned over and kissed here, nipping and pulling at her lip. Gods she was adorable. She’d not let her go since the moment he’d placed the pup in her arms, and he knew that she loved that little wolf fiercely already. And he was powerless to say no to her, with anything. He could imagine this would be the way of his life. His beautiful wife, pouting and begging him. And Sandor Clegane a man who had built a reputation on being a brutal killer, unable to deny her a single damn thing.

“You know you’re spoiling her,” Sandor’s low voice rumble out to Sansa and she nodded and smiled.

“I know. But she’s so precious, Sandor. Sweet and loving. She’s like Lady.”

He saw the tears come then, and the wolf, as if knowing something had bothered Sansa, leaned up and licked her face.

“Fuck, Little Bird, didn’t mean to make you cry,” Sandor said, looking ill at ease. “I’m sorry. If I could go back…” he started to say, at a loss on how to comfort her.

“It wasn’t your fault. If anything, it was me. Thinking Joffrey was some golden prince.” She let a bitter laugh loose.

He placed a big hand over hers, and she looked down, loving the contrast. His, big, scarred, hairy, and tanned. Hers, pale and white and soft. One of the things that Sansa loved most about Sandor is just how large he was. Even now, a day after their marriage, he sat glowering at everyone, as if daring them to even make her upset in the least and he’d beat them into submission. She had a moment to wonder what her father would have thought about such a marriage. Brave and strong and true, had been the match that Ned Stark had said he’d make for her. Sandor was all those things along with being vicious, cutting, cruel and with a foul tongue and temper. But not with her. She watched as he stroked her hand, to calm her and comfort her in front of all their guests and she fell just a little bit more in love with him. How could such a violent man be so gentle with her?

At that moment, Lord Royce approached the table, taking a chair. He sat stiffly and looked between them and then down at the wolf. Then he grinned.

“Never thought I’d see the day when your husband gave you a wolf for a present, Lady Sansa,” the Vale knight said. His eyes landed on Sandor and Sansa felt him stiffen. She knew he was still unsure of his place, and still felt unworthy of her.

“Lord Royce,” she said, her voice low but insistent. “My marriage makes me happy. My husband makes me happy. There is no one who would love me more than him.” Sansa gazed at Sandor and he gave a small smile, but he still looked unsure. Sansa stood and sat on his lap and watched as his eyes widened, then warmed, like grey smoke before his huge arm came and drug her closer. “I’m happy Sandor. With you.”

He nodded, unable to form words around the lump that had formed in his throat. Once again, he knew he’d never deserve her; his smart, pretty wolf who had somehow against all odds gone and fallen in love with him.

His eyes met Lord Royce’s. He knew this man was as good as a father to her. He’d seen her own lose his head that awful day in Kings Landing. He let a hand stroke down her back.

“Won’t ever fucking hurt her.”

The Vale Knight looked at them and could clearly see that. “I know.” His voice was low and accepting and he took his leave.

Sandor expected her to leave his lap. It was unseemly even as far North in a hall like Winterfell for a highborn woman to carry on like she was, but Sansa only snuggled in closer.

“Let them look,” she murmured into his ear. “Many of them did nothing to save me from my last husband. They can deal with my love for my new one.”

Sandor was undone by her. “Little bird, fierce wolf,” he whispered into her ear, tickling her and loving hearing her laugh. Her eyes heated and Sandor wondered when the fuck they could leave this feast. He had such a need for her it was almost painful. For a man that had gone his entire life never having the same woman twice, he now couldn’t wait to unlock all the secrets of Sansa’s body.

Jaime and Brienne sat stiffly beside one another, both lost in thoughts of how they might get through this night. Both knew that they must do their duty, and indeed, if Brienne were to become pregnant, then it would solidify their marriage, but Jaime was loath to touch a woman that hated him. He had never raped anyone in his life, despite spending his entire life as a soldier and seeing men take liberties when they won battles. He preferred his women willing. Well, the only two he’d ever been with had always been.

“It’s all right Jaime,” Brienne’s voice cut through his morose thoughts. She could see the guilt and horror on his face at what they must do. “At least I know it can be pleasurable,” she said, recounting the time he’d saved her from being raped and knowing the pleasure he could bring her. That he had brought her. For a month before he’d burned them to ash. Now, they were forced to try to build something out of that wreckage.

“If there was any way…” he said, and she shook her head.

“There is not,” she responded and rose to leave. He shot to his feet to follow her. Tonight, he’d had very little wine, feeling like he needed his wits about him.

When they entered her rooms, Jaime was assaulted with the memories of the month they’d spent here. He wondered if that had been the best time of his life. It had certainty been the least painful. Each day that he had to live knowing that Cersei was dead, he felt something loosen in him, as if he were being set free from her. It would take time, but he could see now that as long as she had lived, he never would have been free; some twisted part of him would have always been drawn to her and he hated himself for that. Hated that he could find something good in her death.

When Jaime closed the door, Brienne held up her hand.

“Please do not say anything you don’t mean here tonight,” she told him, and he saw a moment of vulnerability cross her face. He nodded solemnly at her and they both undressed. There was no reason to delay any of this; they knew each other well and knew what would bring each other pleasure. Still, when Jaime finally had a chance to gaze upon her body again, he sent a silent prayer to whatever gods there were for giving him this chance again. She was as toned as ever, long limbed and strong. Firm where other women were soft, and Jaime felt himself harden. He’d missed her; he knew that much to be true.

He sunk to his knees and gently pushed her legs apart, before he simply sniffed at her. Knowing he had been the only man here made him groan. He couldn’t even imagine that fucking wilding with her, and almost growled at the thought. Then without warning, he leaned in and begun to pleasure her.

It pleased him to find that she was already ready for him, her body betraying her, knowing what he could make her feel. He worshiped her, and Brienne ruthlessly held his head to her, as she sought her first peak. She would take what she wanted tonight and leave all emotion behind. This was physical and nothing more. Soon she felt that familiar tingle along her spine and Jaime knew she was close by her little pants. He grinned and worked a finger into her.

“Fuck Brienne,” he couldn’t help but groan out, before another moan came from her lips. She grunted as she rode him to her first climax. When she came down from her peak, she expected to see his normal cocky grin, but instead he was looking at her like she was the most precious thing he’d ever seen. Silent he rose and pressed his lips to hers, using his one hand to pin her head to his.

“I’m a fucking bastard, I know, but gods Brienne, I fucking love you. Only you, always you,” he told her, and she saw the tears in his eyes.

“Jaime,” she breathed his name. Things were so uncertain between them, but she knew there was something there; something real no matter how hard he’d tried to destroy it.

They lay in her bed and he moved on top of her, before he asked her if he could enter her. She nodded, pleased that he still sought her consent, despite the threat of a fiery death.

When he sunk into her, he groaned and whispered how much he missed her.

It was on the tip of her tongue to respond that it had been his choice to leave, but she let the words die away. One look on his face, and she swore he’d found his own piece of paradise, and she knew deep down he did love her.

He moved in her and encouraged her to wrap her long legs around him, which she readily complied. They had played so much in the month they had before, that Brienne was confident with making him peak. She couldn’t help but feel that this was home, when he moved inside her. She reached up at one point and cupped his face, much as she’d done the morning he’d ridden away from her and he stilled, looking directly into her eyes.

She saw nothing but raw, honest emotion there, and it overwhelmed her. Saying nothing, he leaned down and kissed her, before resuming his thrusts, knowing he was close. When he felt her reach down to touch herself, knowing that he had only one hand and could only do so much, he felt like a balm came over his soul. He wasn’t forgiven, not yet and not completely, but Brienne was letting him in. When she fluttered around him and peaked once more, Jaime let himself spend deep inside her.

He stayed on top of her for a time, letting himself soften and fall from her. He raised himself up to look and sent her a silent question if he could stay the night in her bed, by her side.

She nodded and he rolled off of her, before she curled up and let herself be held by him. For better or worse, Jaime Lannister was her husband. She would not chase him from her bed, and she would not shirk her duty. She startled a bit to realize that they were now the Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock, and both Sers.

She was now a Lannister, a lion of the West, and as Jaime pressed soft kisses along her back, she hoped, against all odds that his seed took root. They would raise their child to be good and noble and true, and they would do so together.

Before they drifted off to sleep, Brienne heard Jaime whisper softly, “Ser Brienne, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, Lady of Casterly Rock. My wife.” Then sleep claimed her and she dreamed of blond-haired green eyed children.

_Kings Landing_

Days after Sandor and Jaime left, Arya slipped into Jon’s tent. She had heard that it would be weeks before the burning stopped enough for things to be safe enough to enter Kings Landing again. When Jon saw her, he startled, until she remembered she was wearing a different face. An Unsullied face. She slipped the flesh mask off and threw herself into his arms.

“Arya,” he breathed against her, shaking that she was safe and unharmed. And slightly disturbed at the skills his littlest sister had acquired. One thing was more than certain, neither Arya nor Sansa were the girls he remembered from his childhood. Harsh lessons had forced them both to become something different.

“What are we going to do?” she asked, voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.

“Not you, me,” he said and gave her a stern look, which she dismissed. He sighed. There would be no reasoning with her, that he knew well.

“Did you ever love her?” Arya asked, truly curious. Since Jon had come home, all she’d heard him say is that Dany was his Queen and that she would be a good Queen for all of them.

He shook his head, then looked embarrassed. “I was attracted to her,” he mumbled, then met her eyes. “But no more than that, and I never loved her. Sansa told me I had to be smarter than Father, smarter than Robb. So, I made her love me. I needed her dragons and her armies for the Night King fight. That is all.”  
The shame he felt at using her like that wared with the horror of what she had become. He never would have gone to Dragonstone had he known this would have been the outcome, even knowing that the Night King was coming for them.  
Arya nodded. She had suspected at much.

“She doesn’t like Sansa very much,” Arya said, and Jon grunted. No truer statement had been spoken. Dany hated her.

It turned out that Sansa had been right. About everything. Jon had listened but he’d done what he needed to do in order to protect her from Dany’s wrath. The Dragon Queen was not used to having another young, attractive woman whom the people loved competing for her affections. And they loved Sansa dearly. Everyone. The North. The Vale. The Wildlings. Hell, even Tyrion and Varys spoke highly of his sister. Brienne, Theon, Jaime, Pod. All of them, willing to die. For Sansa and not Dany. There had been no hiding how much Sansa Stark meant to Westeros.

Jon had seen Dany’s jealousy clearly and had cut himself off from his family the entire time he was back in Winterfell, sure if he had given away just how much he cared for Sansa that Dany would have done something horrific to her. He still felt his horror when Sam had told him what she had done to his father and brother. He would never have survived watching Sansa being burnt alive.

“We just need one chance,” Jon muttered, and Arya looked at him hard.

“Her Unsullied commander, Greyworm, he never leaves her side,” Arya said, and Jon conceded the point. He was a fearsome man to fight.

“Aye, I know,” he said.

“So, we each take one. By law the throne is yours. Once she is gone, you claim it through your birthright,” Arya stated, easily, as if unconcerned by such an action.

“I don’t want it,” Jon murmured.

“I don’t care,” Arya said, exasperated with him. “We just need to get rid of her. Once she is gone, and her foreign armies leave Westeros, you can give up your throne, your crown. Hell, make Sansa Queen in the North for all I care, Jon. But in order to NOT have the throne, you need to claim it first.”

He nodded. He knew it was all true.

“What will Sansa say? About all of this? I couldn’t stop her Arya.”

She saw the devastation in Jon’s eyes.

“I don’t know, but she loves you, Jon,” Arya told him, then pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. She would be back, but it wasn’t safe to stay any longer. Before she left, she heard him whisper thanks. Arya didn’t envy him over the next two weeks. Jon had never been very good at playing games or keeping the emotions of his face. Knowing that he had to convince Dany he still supported her as they cleaned charred bodies and ruined men, women and children from the city was a daunting task. Still, Arya had a variety of new faces, and she would not let Jon face this task alone. The lone wolf died but the pack survived. It was long past time Jon remembered that.

_Five Weeks Later_

It had taken longer than anyone had anticipated to clear away the rubble, the horses, the dead. The fires seemed to burn with an unholy fuel, and many wondered about the combination of wildfire and dragon fire. Many Northmen had asked to go home, and still uneasy but seeing no way to keep them, Jon had freed them from their duty, keeping only Ser Davos by his side. He knew his hand was just as devastated as he was, along with Tyrion. The three of them no longer needed words to communicate. Looks of outrage, anger and horror marred all their faces, daily.

When the three of them, along with Greyworm stood by Daenerys Targaryen as she spoke to her troops about conquering the world, the last piece fell into place for Jon. Whatever affection he might have held for her had long burned away; but this was too much. She ruled over ashes and thought herself a liberator while she spoke of bending people to the knee through blood and fire. It took everything for Jon not to be sick, and he’d brought her into this home. Tyrion was ashen, knowing that he was a key reason she’d come to Westeros. Never had his father or his sister murdered so many.

Jon, Tyrion and Davos approached her as she walked towards that awful chair in a burnt out, hollow shell of a Throne Room. Tyrion seemed particularly effected by the sight, but he had spent the most time here in Kings Landing of them all.

Somehow in all the chaos, the Iron Throne itself had not burned. Greyworm tracked their movements, still angry and suspicious of them. His need for vengeance had not be sated, and his slaughter of surrendered soldiers in the streets sat like a ball of hot rage in Jon’s stomach. How many men had died unnecessarily because of him and the Unsullied?

Jon tried to follow what Dany was saying, about how their ancestor Aegon had formed the throne from the melted swords of his enemies. Jon honestly couldn’t have given a shit, he just wanted this to be done. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another Unsullied slip in, and knew that Arya was here to help. She had been a godsend over the past month, slipping in to see him, keeping him sane when all he wanted was to kill Dany immediately.

The glee and madness in Dany’s face turned Jon’s stomach; her sense of entitlement boundless. She turned and came to him, giving him one last chance to rule by her side.

Knowing that Arya would take care of her most loyal servant, Jon allowed her to press her body to his, even as he tried not to shudder in revulsion.

And then, in a single moment he struck, driving the dagger deep in her heart. He didn’t even say sorry, and if he had it wouldn’t have been her, he apologized to. It would have been the million innocent people he had allowed to be murdered for supporting her and allowing her a single ounce of power here in Westeros. Her eyes were shocked pools of lavender hurt, as if she still didn’t know what she had done wrong, and that was all the confirmation Jon needed that he had done the right thing.

He saw Greyworm’s eyes narrow in anger and the Unsullied commander moved towards him, murder in his eyes, before a blade swiped across his neck and he fell as well.

Suddenly the dragon was there, and Jon wondered if they were all to meet their death this way. At least he had ended the Mad Queen’s rule if this was how he was to die. But Drogon simply melted the iron throne down to liquid metal, before carrying his mother away.

When the dragon and Dany were gone, Arya removed her mask and Davos and Tyrion jolted at the sight.

“All hail Hi Grace, Aegon Targaryen of Houses Stark and Targaryen, sixth of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” Arya’s voice rang out, loud and clear. Davos, Tyrion and her all bowed to him, and Jon felt the weight of a Kingdom settle on his shoulders.


	8. Chapter 8

** _Meanwhile, back at Winterfell….._ **

Sandor had been correct about sleeping with two wolves. Three if you counted Ghost, but thankfully the fully-grown wolf simply curled up beside the fire, leaving him with Sansa and Hope. It wasn’t a half bad deal if you asked Sandor, seeing his wife so happy with her new family member.

After leaving the feast, Sansa had put Hope down and let this little wolf explore the outside yard. She had grabbed Bran’s wolf as well, and he’d let her know he’d named him Red Wind. Sansa smiled at the name, and knew it was a nod to their oldest brother. She promised to bring him back after he had done his business, and Sandor grumbled when they went into the cold night. Sansa shushed him and grabbed his hand as the puppies played with Ghost and sniffed everywhere looking for the perfect spot to pee. Sandor was just about to open his mouth to encourage the wolves to do their business, when Sansa gasped and looked up. Sandor’s eyes shot up and he arched an eyebrow. The night was inky black, a new moon having just risen, and every star seemed to shine like a diamond in the sky.

“Gods, I missed this,” Sansa breathed in the cold air.

Sandor shook his head at her. She never seemed cold, and even though he saw the appeal of the North, he wondered how long he would have to live here before he loved it like she did. Maybe he never would, not like her, but he knew he loved her, and he’d never seen anyone belong anywhere like she did here.

She had been wasted in that hell hole that was King’s Landing, and seeing her in the North, he knew that this was her place. That their children would grow up here, in these walls and love the North as much as their mother.

“Fucking cold,” he muttered and watched as his wife spun, looking impossibly beautiful and young.

“Spring is in the air, Sandor. I can smell it.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Not what I fucking smell.”

She laughed at him, and he shook his head in wonder. No matter how miserable and growly he got, she never seemed to mind. She leaned into him.

“Kiss me.”

He frowned. “Little bird, it’s cold.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Kiss me, Sandor. In the cold and the night air. Kiss me. Because you can. Because you’re my husband.” She lowered her voice. “Because you need me so much you can’t wait until we are alone.”

He growled and hauled her against his huge body, and she laughed breathlessly as his mouth crashed down on hers.

“Fuck, I have such need for you, wife.”

“Oh, me too, Sandor.”

He pulled back and looked at her. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes danced. It shocked him every time how much she wanted him.

“You’re more addictive than Dornish red.”

She let out a bright peal of laughter. “Now that’s a true compliment from you.”

“If you keep this up, you’ll have a babe every year, Sansa.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, that would be lovely.”

He shook his head at her, but he was smiling as well.

Soon enough the pups were back, and Sansa whistled to them softly. She knew that Ghost would teach them what they needed to know, and before her and Sandor retired to their rooms, they dropped Red Wind off with Bran. Her brother once again smiled at them, and then cocked his head. “I’m happy for you both,” he said, and Sansa pressed a kiss against his cheek. Before she left, he called out, “Sansa, can you please invite Meera and Howland Reed to Winterfell as well.” She nodded and closed his door softly.

She didn’t even begin to understand who or what her brother had become, but he was her brother and her family, and she would do whatever it was he needed.

Once they were in their rooms, Sansa banked the fire automatically. She knew that Sandor still had a fear of it. He’d spoken a bit to her about that night when they’d fought the dead and his cowardice and how it was only Arya being in trouble that had motivated him to keep going. She couldn’t blame him and would do her best to take on the tasks he found distasteful. Once the fire was bright, and Ghost was settled, Hope wiggled until Sansa picked her up and placed her on their bed. It was a massive thing, Sandor now realized, having taken a good look at it. He didn’t remember her last one being quite so large. He frowned and pointed to it. “Where did this bed come from?” He’d been so exhausted when he’d come back, and then with two weddings in two nights, he’d hardly had time to catch his breath.

Sansa blushed. “I got it made, once you left. I had hope that you would come back and you’re not exactly small.”

Sandor’s eyes widened at that confession. It was true that he was a large man; he’d rarely met anyone who was his size, and most of his life he had to fit himself into cramped quarters, uncomfortable beds and cramped clothing. He realized that since he’d been back at Winterfell, everything seemed to fit him.

The land was vast and sparsely populated; especially after the war with the dead. Sansa’s rooms, now their rooms, were the largest in the whole castle and had high walls for a keep and not too much furniture. Things here weren’t stamped with a fucking lion, and the furniture was sturdy and useful. She’d made him a warm cloak, and when he’d put it on today, it had fit him perfectly which was rare. The same went for all his new clothing. And gloves. The only thing she hadn’t made him were new boots. He realized now she’d used the Kingsguard cloak to know his size. And now it seemed his wife had commissioned a bed that would easily fit him, her, and a couple of their children if required. He could easily imagine her wanting her children close to them, and the thought of them together, snuggle in bed like a pile of puppies keeping warm almost brought him to his knees.

She was a wonder, he thought. He’d never had anyone in his entire life take so much care for him. Who thought about his needs the way that she did. That actually liked him.

“Sansa,” he breathed her name, both a prayer and a benediction. He didn’t know what he could possibly do to be worthy of her, but by gods, he would try. He saw her blush and wave away his praise, and that wouldn’t do. He walked up to her and cupped her face in his massive hands, holding her softly.

“Don’t,” he told her. “Don’t wave away all the good you do. No one is as generous and as capable as you, Sansa. You are a wonder,” he told her, his voice filled with awe.

She blushed and met his eyes.

“The north is lucky to have you, Sansa Stark.” He leaned down and kissed her, trying to keep the heat out it, instead showing her just how incredible she was. It was working until she rubbed her body along his wantonly and he couldn’t help but smirk at her. He’d heard stories being around men with wives, about women who were with a child and how needy they became in the bedroom. He didn’t know if it were the babe or just the fact that she was so new to finding her pleasure, but he appreciated that his wife seemed to want him. At least as much as he wanted her.

Once he’d finished kissing her, he turned her around and begun to pull at the stays and laces on her dress. He liked doing this, he discovered, which was odd as he’d never paid much attention to it before, undressing a woman. It must be different because she was his wife, he mused.

Soon enough, Sansa wore nothing but her shift and turned to do the same with him. When he pulled his soft tunic over his head, he grinned at his wife as she once again dove into his chest hair. She was fascinated by him, and he loved it. She squeaked as he picked her up and dropped her on the bed. Which is when Hope thought they were there to play with her.

Sandor lifted the little wolf, and she licked his face before he held her to his eyes, “Now listen here, little girl, you’d best behave, or you’re out in the cold where a wolf belongs,” he told her sternly and set her down beside Ghost. She gave Sandor a look and then cuddled into the white wolf.

When Sandor turned back to the bed, Sansa was grinning softly at him. She rose to her knees, so when he stood by the side of their bed; she could cup his face.

“What?” he asked, suspicious of the look on her face.

“You’re going to be a good father,” she said and saw the startled look on his face. He began to protest, and she pressed a finger against his lips. “We both know it’s true. You may have a very mean bark, Sandor Clegane, and lord knows you can bite, but not to those that you love,” she told him, and he grunted.

While he was excited to have a child, he was also terrified. He’d grown up in a world of pain, hurt, anger and rage and had to learn from a young age what was required just to survive. He didn’t want that for any child of his.

He didn’t answer her, but captured her lips again, and let his hands wander over her form, before taking off her shift so she was naked beneath his hands. He swore she grew larger by the day, and he hardened further when he saw her stomach and breasts. He leaned down and captured a nipple in his mouth, and tugged and played with it, while his hand and fingers found her warmth. It always stunned him how much she wanted him. It wasn’t something a woman could fake, and Sansa’s body was always ready for him. He pushed he back gently and still standing, hauled her closer to him, so her core lined up with him. He saw her excitement at another new way to couple, and swore he’d become the most creative bastard in the seven kingdoms for her.

When he surged into her, she immediately realized the advantage to such a position. Sandor’s hands were free to roam her body, and he stroked and played with that little nub he’d shown her above her curls. Plus, with his feet and legs braced against the bed, he was able to thrust into her in a steady rhythm and she locked her long legs around his midsection. Sansa simply hung on to his forearms and let herself be overcome with sensation. She had never known coupling could be like this, and she was so grateful that he made it good for her each time. She watched as his grey eyes darkened and saw the sweat run down his face. A face that had become as dear to her as anyone’s in the entire world. She barely saw the scars; they were as much a part of him as anything else.

She loved playing with his chest hair and knew he didn’t understand it was because it made him seem so different than Petyr or Ramsay or Joffrey. Every other man Sansa had been forced to be intimate or close with had been small and fine and soft. Sandor was none of those things, and as he hit a spot deep within her, Sansa felt herself begin to shake. Wiggling a bit, she tried to find it again, and seeing her struggle, Sandor put his massive hands under her arse and lifted her slightly and plowed into her. She gripped him harder as he hit a hidden patch of nerves again and again along the inside of her.

“Sandor?” she whimpered, unsure of what was happening.

She watched as a feral grin came over his face. He’d never expected to find it, and not so soon, but he’d heard stories about a place deep in a woman that when stroked right would make her peak harder than ever, and he was sure he’d found it

“Trust me, little bird,” he told her and increased his pace. The room was filled with grunts and pants as Sandor drove into her again and again, until Sansa began to wail, and shake, before she screamed and broke apart, clenching around him so hard Sandor thought she might break him right off. She flooded them both as he finished with a roar. He felt an inordinate sense of accomplishment and tried not to collapse on top of her as his cock twitched and pulsed deep inside her.

“Fucking hells, Sansa,” he told her, at once overwhelmed and so proud of her. How could a woman that had been so poorly used be so trusting with him was beyond his comprehension. When he finally found her face, she had tears tracking down them.

She shook her head when he looked concerned, and murmured, “I’m just overwhelmed, in a good way,” she said sighed.

He had the biggest grin on his face as if he’d slain some impossible monster. He strutted around the room and grabbed a washcloth from the basin of water and came back to clean her gently.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips. “That was amazing,” he told her and was delighted when she giggled.

Soon enough he was back beside the bed, but along the way he’d pick up the little pup, who in all their commotion had woken up. When he crawled into bed beside his wife, he felt her snuggle into his arms and push her arse and back against his chest. He warned her that he might have a need for her again and she shot him a cheeky smile. When he draped his hand around her stomach, his felt he soft fur of the wolf curled up against her and would have shaken his head if he hadn’t been overcome with sleep. It seemed his lot in life was to be ruled by wolves; first Sansa, then her feral sister, and now the little pup. Before sleep finally claimed him, he heard Sansa whisper, “Good night Hope, good night Sandor,” and then he was asleep, contentment unlike any Sandor had ever known allowing him to fall into a deep slumber.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*******************************~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jaime woke the next morning with his face smashed into Brienne’s back.

The first thing he realized, was that he’d missed this view, and how much comfort he’d taken to waking up in her arms. He wondered if she would allow this to continue, them sharing a bed.

The second thought was, how beautiful of a back it was. It was all clean lines and defined muscles. Jaime loved to take his tongue and trace it all over her body, but he had spent hours worshiping her back.

Brienne’s body was a work of art and not in the traditional feminine sense. No matter how hard she trained and how tough she became, underneath her armour she was still a woman and Jaime appreciated her form. The third thing he realized was that he was married to Brienne.

The fourth was that he was hard. He knew he should ask or wake her and let her kick him out of her bed, but she was warm, and she smelled good, and he wanted her.

So, Jaime let his hand roam, and his tongue explore. The hand he had draped around her front cupped a small breast, and he smirked when he felt her respond to him. Thinking of her breasts made Jaime think about the fact that they might have made a child together last night, and he felt himself grow harder. While his hand was busy playing with her breast, Jaime licked and sucked his way up and down her back, leaving redden marks behind. He surged forward to seek her wet heat and he canted his hips almost involuntarily. So, lost in his explorations of her, he barely realized she had woken up, before he heard her pant, “For fuck sakes Jaime, just put it in me already.”

Grinning like a madman, he brought his hand down and smacked her arse. “Up on all fours,” he commanded, and Brienne scrambled to comply. Once there, Jaime took but a moment to admire the view before he slammed into her and felt her arch back to meet each thrust.

“Gods Brienne, what you do to me,” he muttered and watched those muscles he’d just kissed and licked and suck ripple as he made love to her. Both their needs were too great, and soon Jaime felt himself tighten. He knew she was close and propped himself on his golden hand while his other hand went to find her nub, only to discover that here hand was already there.

“You naughty girl,” he purred to her, loving that she wanted this as much as he did.

“Jaime,” she panted his name.

“Brienne be a good girl and peak now,” he told her.

They both knew that he was no match for her, outside the bedroom; she’d beaten him and every other man she’d faced in one on one combat and she knew she was simply the best. But in the bedroom, they had both discovered that they liked it when he was in charge. Perhaps it came from a lifetime of Cersei controlling every aspect of his life, including their coupling, but Jaime was never more turned on than when Brienne let him take the lead.

It was odd that she desired him most when he was in control, because she rarely gave control up in any other aspect of her life. She had been worried that this would be missing from their lovemaking when she knew they would lie together again, and that had made her upset. She was glad to find that she still enjoyed this aspect of their coupling as much as always and it mended a bit more of that broken trust between them.

Jaime continued to stoke into her, harder and more erratically until he saw the sweat run down her back.

“Ohhh my girl, you’re so close, I can tell,” he said. “Keep touching yourself Brienne. You know I like it when you do that,” he told her. She keened out a loud moan, and Jaime almost finished then and there, but he was determined to bring her with him.

“Peak Brienne,” he grunted into her ear and bit down on her neck and felt her clench around him. Howling he emptied deep inside her, pumping furiously and felt her scream his name into the room. Overwhelmed he collapsed on top of her, murmuring how much he loved her, and that she was his. Eventually he pulled himself off her back and lay down beside her, before cupping her face and pressing a kiss to her mouth.

“Good morning, wife,” he told her and watched as she blushed. Gods, she was adorable.

“Husband,” she said, and he laughed.

“I am,” he said and gave her a grin. Then he watched as a contemplative look came across her face.

“You’ve never been a husband before,” she stated, and he nodded. “You wanted this,” she said, and her voice held a note of awe.

Jaime looked into her eyes and then sighed and grabbed the hand and pressed a kiss to her palm.

“Do you want me to explain, or should I shut up and not make things worse?” he asked a bit ruefully.

She shook her head. “Explain,” she commanded him.

He laughed a bit and then opened his arms and was pleased when she was willing to lay her head on his chest. Content, for now, he ran his hands through her short, bright hair.

“My entire life, I was expected to marry. When King Aerys’ made me a Kingsguard at seventeen, it was a punishment, against my father,” he told her. He’d explained some of this story before. But it didn’t hurt to open himself up to her. He would do anything to win her back. He shrugged.

“To be honest, it didn’t matter because I knew I could still fuck my sister, and even I knew I could never marry her. Being a Kingsguard seemed like a good compromise.”

He felt her tense and pressed a kiss to her head. “I promise there is a good outcome to this story,” he told her, and she settled.

“When Robert and Cersei married, and she encouraged Robert to make me the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, it took me years to understand that it was a way to keep me by her side and from fulfilling my duties as my father’s heir.”

He paused, “Even then I was willing to do anything for her. The first time Robert hit her I offered to murder my second King.” He laughed, a bit bitterly. “I really wasn’t a very good Kingsguard. Three kings died in my service.” Brienne squeezed him and he felt her unwavering loyalty and support even if he didn’t deserve it. “I was in the room; for the birth of each of our children, but I could never claim them. It killed something in me, I think. I never actively wanted to be married, but years later I was able to admit that I wanted… something respectable. Something normal.”

Silence dominated the room, and Jaime sighed.

“As long as she was alive, she never would have let me have that, no matter who I married. She would have found a way to taint that, to ruin any chance I had at happiness. And I hate to admit I probably would have let her. I make no excuses. I made my own poor choices, but she had a way of manipulating me, or never letting me truly be free, even when she brought man after man into her bed. And then Clegane killed her, and the Dragon Queen ordered me to marry you, and suddenly, instead of being punished for being a bastard to you, I was being given a chance at having something I never thought I would ever get.”

Brienne looked up and met his eyes and saw the truth. Jaime wasn’t the most eloquent man, and lord knew that he had so much history with his sister that every confession had the potential to hurt more than heal, but she could see no lie.

He cupped her cheek. “I never thought I’d be given a chance to be with someone openly, where everyone knew, and it wasn’t a shameful secret. And to be with someone that I loved and was proud to be with.”

Brienne could see the truth in his eyes and was overwhelmed. Her entire life she had never been chosen by anyone, and certainly not someone like Jaime Lannister. And now she was laying in his arms, as his wife. Gods it would be so easy just to forgive him and move on, to be happy. But he had hurt her deeply.

“It’s going to take time Jaime,” she told him and saw him nod. “But this is a good start,” she told him. It was. He needed to let her in.

Brienne realized then that if he had never left, she never would have had the courage to confront the Cersei issue. That was no excuse for his behaviour. It had been abominable. But Brienne was starting to feel that something stronger, better, and more honest could come from all that hurt that had happened when he’d left to go back to Kings Landing. She remembered Sansa’s words about a hateful marriage, and about how much loss they had all experienced. Brienne didn’t want a hateful marriage. And no matter what happened, she still loved Jaime. She just knew it would take time to repair what had happened.

Jaime coughed and brought her attention back to him. “I’m sorry if I didn’t ask about having you…” and she barked out a laugh and hushed him with a kiss.

“You are my husband, Jaime, and we need an heir,” she told him, then added quickly, “to prove our marriage is real.”

He nodded. “Of course, for the realm, you see,” and she almost giggled at the blatant lie between them. They needed an heir; but right now, they just needed each other.

“Yes, and the only way to do that,” she began, and felt himself harden against her stomach, “Is for you to be in your wife.

“Seven fucking hells, Brienne,” Jaime groaned as she grasped him and sunk on him and rode him to another peak. To be fair, she finished as well, and once again collapsed against his chest, both of them heaving.

“It’s just going to take time, Jaime, but this is a good start,” Brienne repeating what told him earlier because her brain felt like porridge. She felt him nod into her neck.

“Can I move my things into your rooms?” he asked, and she supressed a grin and nodded solemnly at him. She had no idea what she would do if they ever had a son that had half his good looks and contrite attitude. She’d be unable to say no to him ever.

“Thank you, wife,” Jaime said, solemnly, knowing what a significant step this was.

“Your welcome, husband,” Brienne said back, and then hauled them from the bed.

As much as she’d like to have another round with her pretty husband, she knew that there were things for them to do today.

Before Brienne could get dressed, Jaime sent her a hopeful look, and despite her best efforts, Brienne knew that the walls around her heart were not quite so high, or so thick as she had previously believed. Unwilling to spend any more time thinking about the state of her marriage, Brienne barked out an order for him to dress, before turning her back and letting the small smile cross her face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*****************************~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A week after Jaime and Brienne and Sam and Gilly wed, Sansa received a raven stating the Queen was dead, and that Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, had been named the new King. Sansa smiled slightly at that, a huge sense of relief washing over her before she immediately began to worry about her cousin. She knew that Jon had not wanted the crown. The raven also stated, as Bran had alluded too, that everyone would be making their way to Winterfell to discuss the issues around what was to happen in Westeros now that both wars were over.

As his first official command as King, Jon (_he would never be Aegon to her_) sent a summons to all six Kingdoms as well as the Iron Islands to meet at Winterfell in five weeks. He apologized to Sansa for everything and then his raven abruptly stopped, and she could almost feel the guilt and shame and anger through the paper.

He worried that he was asking too much, for her to host a number of Lords and Ladies once again so they could decide on the best course of action for the Kingdom.

She wrote back immediately that it was no issue, and that the restoration of Winterfell was well underway, and they had more than enough food stores.

Since Tormund had left, Sansa had been in regular contact with Jon’s wildling friend, and they had agreed to facilitate trade between the free folk and the North. He had settled many of the wildings at Castle Black, using the keep to be the conduit between those wildings that had stayed south of the Wall and those that had gone North again.

Sansa had another massive problem; three northern houses had been wiped from existence.

House Mormont, House Karstark and House Bolton were gone.

House Glover had refused to come to their aid during the Long Night, and Sansa knew there were some who openly questioned Jon Snow.

When Dany had been a threat, Sansa would have never left the walls of Winterfell. But with her now gone, they needed to ensure that the Northern houses that remained swore loyalty to House Stark. She would call the banners once more, to see who was truly loyal in the North to House Stark. And those who would not meet her very fierce husband to explain their desertion to her House.

Sansa had also begun to think about what she wanted for the North. She trusted Jon, but what she had said to the Dragon Queen before the war with the dead was still true; the North had suffered too much and sacrificed too many to give up its independence. She wanted to be more than just a Wardeness and one of seven Kingdoms. She wanted Northern freedom.

That’s how Sandor found her; deep in contemplation, a raven scroll in her hand and a frown on her face.

“Wife,” he rasped as he entered the room and Sansa shook herself from her musings. She had called a meeting with their friends later this evening but wanted to speak with Sandor first.

“A raven from the south,” she said and handed it to him. It had pleased her when she realized that he’d spent some time learning from a Maester when he’d been a boy. It was easy to forget that he was a high-born man, even though his house was a minor one. Compared to someone like Gendry, Sandor’s education was first rate.

Sandor quickly read the raven and couldn’t help but let a smile break out across his face. The little wolf bitch and the broody Jon Snow had done it.

“Fucking about time,” he muttered and then glanced at Sansa. He thought she’d be happier knowing that their enemy was dead, and her cousin was now King.

He gestured to her face and asked, “Why do you look like that?”

She sighed and gave him a look. Then she worried her plump bottom lip, and Sandor groaned at the sight. He always wanted his wife. 

“I want the North to be independent.”

He arched his eyebrow at her.

“You want to be a Queen?” Then his eyes narrowed. “Of the North or the whole seven kingdoms?” His insecurities came rushing back to him, and he wondered for a brief moment if she regretted marrying him now that her cousin was free.

“Sandor,” she said, and her tone brooked no argument. “Stop. I will never go south again; you have to know that. And I love you.”

He grunted a bit, and she rose, knowing he needed more reassurance than that. She grabbed his hands and placed them on her stomach. “I choose you, Sandor. You are my husband. And I don’t want to be Queen. For all, I care they can give that title to Bran. He’s my father’s trueborn son. I just want the North to be free.”

Sandor had watched her face during her little speech and saw no lies or deception. He also knew how much the Northerner’s loved her. He’d bet his very little gold that they would choose her over her brother. Even with him as her husband. And then his blood ran cold. If she was the Queen of the North, would that make him the King? Sandor stumbled a bit and looked for a chair and sunk into one.

Worried, Sansa sunk to her knees and placed her hands on his face. “Sandor, what is it? Are you ill?”

“Little bird, if they make you Queen does that make me….” Sandor swallowed hard, “King?”

Sansa tried not to giggle at his look of abject horror at the notion. Her entire life every man she’d met had seemed to want power and the only two who didn’t, Jon and Sandor, were the only two she trusted with the title of King. It told her to trust her excellent instincts.

“Oh Sandor, I doubt I very much will be the Queen in the North,” she said, smiling softly at him. “But if that were to happen, you could be my consort if that is more comfortable for you.”

Sandor nodded and swallowed hard. “Fuck me little bird. Queen,” he breathed and then smiled at her. He knew she would be the best choice for the North. Her or her cousin, but he wasn’t sure how that would work if Jon were now King of the Seven Kingdoms. Sandor shook his head.

“When do they all arrive?” he asked and pulled her onto his lap. As long as he was here with her, he might as well be touching her.

“Five weeks,” she told him, and then explained who was coming, and he let his mind drift as his hand settled over her stomach. Everyone else would find out later, and for now, Sandor was content to sit here with his wife while she chirped about Lords and Ladies he didn’t give a fuck about.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~************************************~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brienne was leaving the forge when she overhead some men talking. At first, she couldn’t possibly understand who they were talking about until she heard what it was about. Her stomach dropped.

“Bet her cunt is as ugly as the rest of her.”

“I heard he had to fuck her from behind, so he doesn’t have to look at that face.”

“Well, can’t blame him. His whole life he’s fucked his beautiful sister and now to be stuck with that. I’d be so deep into my cups each night to be with her.”

“I heard it was his punishment. Feel sorry for the bastard if that’s what he had to look at each day.”

“Can’t imagine calling someone that fucking ugly my wife.”

Before Brienne could even react, she heard the unmistakable sound of flesh connecting with flesh and then grunts and shouts. Starting out of her stupor, Brienne rounded the corner to see her husband pounding a man into the muddy yard, just as two other Northmen were getting ready to jump on him.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Jaime was saying as his fist broke the man’s nose and blood gushed from his face.

“It’s fucking true, sister fucker,” the little fat one said and jumped on Jaime’s back. Rolling with the man, Jaime jammed his knee into the man’s balls, and he groaned before hitting Jaime in the nose, and they both feel backwards. Brienne saw the third man unsheathe a dagger and advanced on her husband.

“Jaime,” she called out, and he turned before unsheathing his sword and rising to knock the blade from the man’s hand.

“You defend her?” the man said incredulously. “That brute?”

“She’s my fucking wife,” Jaime said, and drove the man to his knees, holding his sword at the man’s throat. “And I fucking love her. Of course, I’ll defend her. Forever if needs be.”

Brienne stood there, speechless. The fight had drawn a crowd, and Pod and Gendry had witnessed the end. Before anyone could say anything more, the second man had scrambled to his feet, a sword in his hand. Jaime’s back was turned, and Pod reached out and struck him down, so all three were laying in the mud.

Sansa and Sandor came careening around the corner.

“What happened?” Sansa cried.

Sandor met Jaime’s eyes and knew it had something to do with his wife. Stepping in front of Sansa, he looked at the three soldiers laying in the mud. Crouching down, he leaned in close.

“Stupid fucking cunts, the lot of you,” he muttered to them. Rising, he called for the guards to put them in the dungeons for a few days. They’d find some hard labour for them and send them away from Winterfell to find work in Wintertown or some other northern keep. Sandor looked to Sansa to see if he’d overstepped and she simply nodded at him, proud of how he’d handled the situation.

Jaime wobbled, his nose still gushing blood, his lip split and his knuckles bruised. Brienne rushed to his side and helped him remain on his feet.

“You stupid man,” she muttered, but she was secretly pleased by his defence of her.

“Ahhh my love, you’re worth it,” he said, trying to grin.

“And what if they had truly decided to hurt you,” she said to him, cross and annoyed at him.

He laughed a bit, before holding his hurting ribs.

“Well then, my darling, you would have cut them down for me,” he told her, love shining from his eyes.

Brienne scoffed. She had always tried to be annoyed by Jaime’s cavalier attitude, but in this instance, she couldn’t help the small smile that graced her face. It was ridiculous, but he’d leapt to her defence without a thought to his own safety. He’d done it before; with the Bolton men that wanted to rape her, and then when they’d left her with that bear. It seemed like she and Jaime were destined to save each other, again and again.

Still muttering that he was an idiot, she took him back to their rooms. The week since their wedding had seen them make small steps forward. They slept in the same bed, made love each night and most mornings and ate beside each other. But Brienne still held herself back from him. She was still wary and guarded, and he never pushed for more.

Sansa had ordered a bath for him, and Jaime stripped down and sunk into it gratefully.

“Jaime, you just can’t do things like that,” Brienne started to speak, trying to convey just how much he’d scared her. “It’s not worth it. My entire life, I’ve heard things like that.”

His eyes were closed when he spoke. “You’re my wife. I’ll fight whoever I hear speak about you that way,” he muttered as if were a forgone conclusion.

“Jaime, it’s unnecessary,” she protested.

Frustrated, Jaime slammed his hand against the side of the tub and opened his eyes, pinning his green ones to her blue. “Fuck Brienne, if I have to fight every person from here back to Casterly Rock that speaks about you like that, I will do it. You’re my wife.”

Brienne was shocked.

“You’re not any of those things. And I will kill anyone who speaks about you like that,” he yelled into the room. Standing, he stepped out of the tub, and dripping water crossed the room and smashed his face against her, pinning her to his naked, wet body. “I’m so hard all the time I can hardly stand to be around you. I love to look at you when I’m in you, and I can’t imagine anyone else being my wife.” He sighed and pressed his forehead to hers.

“Jaime,” she said softly, gripping him around his waist.

“Brienne, you are not any of those things to me, you have to know that,” he pleaded with her.

“You don’t need to defend me or pretend I’m something I’m not,” she told him. She’d been doing it her entire life, and she knew she was no beauty.

He laughed and cupped her cheek with his one hand. “You’re my wife, Brienne. And it was never a punishment. You are the answer to every dream I’d ever had.”

“Jaime,” Brienne whispered, undone by him.

She clawed at her armoured, and he helped her out of it until they were both naked and he sunk into her.

“I love you,” he told her and kissed her, “And I want to murder anyone who says anything bad about you. That’s the man I am, Brienne. I do hateful things for the women I love.”

They stumbled to the bed, and he never stopped looking into her eyes while he made love to her.

Brienne was done. She knew she should be appalled by his willingness to attack anyone who said something awful about her, but it was such a heady feeling. And she was so tired of fighting him. She loved him, body, mind and soul and despite what he’d done to her, she’d seen him try to make amends.

“I love you, Jaime,” she whispered after they had both found their peak and he was sucking on her neck and lovingly caressing her body. He raised his head and looked at her, swallowing hard.

Brienne was not a woman to speak falsely, nor was she one to jape. He saw the truth in her bright blue eyes. Tears came to him, and he kissed her hard and demanding. “I promise, I’ll make it up to you, wife, every day for all my mistakes,” he said, over and over again.

She carded her hands through her hair and kissed him back. “Just try, Jaime. Try to be that good person I know you are,” she told him.

“I will, I promise,” he told her.

Long minutes passed as they lay wrapped in each other arms before she told him that Sansa had requested their presence in the solar. Jaime grunted and said he wasn’t moving until she smacked him on his perfect arse.

“That’s abuse,” he japed with her and pouted, as Brienne rolled her eyes at him.

They both could tell that things had changed. It wasn’t quite what it had been before, but like a steel sword forged in fire, their relationship was stronger than before. There was no Cersei looming over them, ready to snatch him back, to bend him to her will and make him suffer from trying to be better. They had gone through something terrible, and against all the odds, had both survived to build something different, and it was good.

Laughing at his antics, Brienne couldn’t help but roll her eyes at him as they entered the family solar.

Sansa immediately looked at them, having worried earlier about what state they might be in after that battle in the yard, but she watched as Jaime tenderly took Brienne’s hand and she let him. Here, away from the prying eyes of the masses, surrounded by friends and family, Brienne was finally comfortable to let everyone see that their marriage was going to be okay.

Sansa didn’t keep them in antifiction long.

“The Dragon Queen and her Unsullied commander are dead. Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name and the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms had claimed the crown through right of conquest,” Sansa told the gathered lords and ladies in her solar.

Everyone startled a bit and looked confused until Sansa looked at Sam and he stood and explained who Jon was. Stunned gasps rang out through the room.

“And you can prove this?” Lord Royce said.

Sam nodded. “I stole the book from the Citadel myself,” he said and pointed to it sitting on Sansa’s desk.

“Howland Reed was there, with our father,” Bran spoke then. “He will confirm Sam’s findings of Jon’s true parentage.”

Everyone looked stunned.

“It’s amazing,” Jaime said, his voice barely a whisper. “Honorable Ned Stark. Fuck me, that’s impressive.”

Sansa stiffened, and Sandor placed a hand on her shoulder; either for support or to hold her back.

“What do you mean, Ser Jaime?” Her voice was tight with anger.

He looked at the man’s daughter and leaned forward. “Your father destroyed his reputation, made everyone think that he was a shit that cheated on his wife and then brought that bastard home to raise with his legitimate children, never even telling your mother, all to protect the future heir to the Iron Throne,” Jaime said, awe in his voice. He looked at Sansa then. “We have history, Lady Sansa, between our families. Ugly, awful history. The day I killed King Aerys’ he threatened to burn Kings Landing to the ground. Half a million people. He’d hidden stores of wildfire throughout the city and he’d gone mad. Robert had killed his son Rhaegar, and my father saw an opportunity and turned on him sacking the city.” Sansa held Jaime’s eyes. Everyone else in the room, except Brienne was enraptured. “I had a choice. Obey my king and kill my father and let him burn Kings Landing to the ground or murder a King. I was seventeen.” Jaime paused and Brienne squeezed his hand. It was long overdue for this story to be told. “When your father found me, he never even asked me why I did it. He assumed it was for my father, and that I wanted the throne. I hated him ever since he called me Kingslayer. And now I find out just how far he was willing to go to protect an innocent child.” Jaime shook his head, stunned at the knowledge that all along, the bastard Jon Snow was the true King. There were so many things she wished she could ask her father; about Jon, and Jaime and her aunt Lyanna. But he was dead and gone and had taken his reasons with him to the grave. She looked at Jaime Lannister. It was impossible not to associate him with his hateful sister, his cruel father and his vicious son. But he had fought for the living, and if what he said was true, he’d one saved half a million people.

“I’m sorry my father never asked you why, Ser Jaime,” Sansa began, but he waved his hand at her.

“Long ago, Lady Sansa,” and the room quieted, thinking about the Mad King’s daughter who had accomplished what her father could not.

Sansa told them all that a council meeting had been called for Winterfell. All were grateful not to have to travel down to Kings Landing, and everyone agreed to stay.

As the group made their way to the Hall, Sansa called for ale and wine. She knew they all needed to drink to toast what Arya and Jon had accomplished. She watched in amusement as Sandor and Jaime got into a drinking contest, her husband having the edge on the Golden Lion. Pod sang; only this time, the songs were happy and joyful. Gendry even indulged, excited that Arya was coming back to Winterfell. At one point, Sandor hauled Sansa onto his lap where she stayed for the rest of the evening. Jaime gave Brienne a look, but she shook her head and swatted him away.

Gilly and Sam sat quietly, marvelling at their friends, and even Lord Royce relaxed enough to indulge in an ale or two.

Later that night when Sansa lay in Sandor’s arm, warm and sated, she turned and pinned him with a look. Something had been on her mind all evening, that much was clear.

“Would you have told me?” she asked, and he gave her a confused look.

“Told you what?” Sandor had been too busy thinking about other more enjoyable things to worry about what went on in that brilliant brain of hers.

She sighed. “Say you had to go away, and there was a war, and you found your sister dying, and you promised to raise her child, but in hiding, and then came home to me and told everyone that he was your bastard son, would you tell me the truth?”

Sandor’s mouth gaped open at that sentence, and then he snapped it shut and tried to imagine himself and Sansa in that situation. He’d had a sister once and would have done anything for her. He hadn’t been able to protect her from his monstrous brother. He thought about her question.

“Without a doubt, I’d tell you,” he said without a moment’s hesitation and then added, “First off, you’d figure it out. You’re too smart. Second, you’d kill me if I ever even looked at another woman, let alone touched one. Third, you’re my wife, and I’d never hurt you like that. And fourth, you’d know what to do if I came home with the heir to the seven kingdoms.”  
Sansa smiled and snuggled closer. “Good. Don’t ever look at another woman like you look at me, or I’ll feed you to Ghost.”

Sandor started to laugh before he remembered what she’d done to Ramsay. And to Littlefinger. He did chuckle then. “Fierce little thing aren’t you wife,” he said and nipped at her.

“I am. And you are mine, Sandor,” she said with a hard edge to her voice.

“It’s a wonder you think anyone else would even have me, Sansa, but you have to know. I’ve been yours for years, and I’m yours until the end of my days,” Sandor told her and saw her blue eyes melt.

“As you are mine. I love you, husband,” Sansa said before she snuggled deeper into his embrace and closed her eyes.

“And I love you, little bird,” Sandor said and pressed a kiss to her forehead, before following her into sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Sandor had been back at Winterfell for over a month and he wasn’t quite sure if his life had ever been quite so good. He made sure he wore a scowl most of the day so no one would get the impression that he was actually happy; he felt it important to maintain his reputation as man to be feared, but it was getting harder and harder.

The main reason was Sansa Stark. Somehow, against all odds, the Little Brid was his. It still made him shake his head most days and he sometimes still had a hard time believing it. There were no words to describe what it meant to be her husband, to be accepted and loved by her, to finally have a place and a home in this shit world. Sansa made all of it happen. She had seamlessly integrated him into her life, and he grunted one day when he realized she had cleverly given him more and more responsibility as the Lord of Winterfell. Had she dumped it all on him at once, he was sure they would have fought miserably about it.

But his crafty wolf wife did not. No, she knew him better than he knew himself, so she would casually ask him to do something one morning, and having no other plans, he’d comply. Or she’d compliment him, telling him he was one of their best fighters and suggest he could help Brienne train the men that had stayed behind at Winterfell, noting that sooner or later they would need knights to serve House Stark again. There were about fifty good men that Sandor thought could become knights for House Stark. He knew Sansa wanted more; she had a need to feel safe and to defend their home, but for now it was a decent start. And he, loyal dog that he was, spent hours training the men. He had to admit, it was a great to see the respect that the men started to give him. And he was almost sure that he would be able to take Brienne at this point, he was in such fine shape right now. He liked feeling like he belonged somewhere finally. Almost no one stared at his scar and Sansa kissed it so much that he hardly noticed anymore. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time it had bothered him when she touched it or stroked that side of his face. He had never believed that someone like her could love him, but she proved it each and every day.

Sometimes he’d ride to the outlying villages with her, as she visited the people who had come back North after the war and bring them food or information.

Other times, she’d pretend to not understand something in one of her never-ending ledgers and ask him to look it over as she’d discovered one evening that he had a good head for numbers. That’s when he figured out what she had been doing. She gave him a sheepish grin but was relentless. She would wear away rock like water did, and Sandor learned it was simpler to go along with her than to fight her.

“Clever little wolf, aren’t you?” He grimaced but she batted her eyelashes at him. He hauled her off to their bed when he’d discovered that. She was laughing until he made her cry out his name in pleasure.

Another reason he was content was because he’d realized he’d found his place. He actually liked the North, even if he complained daily about the cold; that was just how he talked. To be honest, with his fur and the clothes she made him, he hardly felt it anymore. He liked how the North wasn’t filled with a bunch of pretentious cunts like those down south. The woods were close to hunt and ride and the land was wide and open and the people honest and warm once they accepted you. Sandor didn’t know what he did to gain their acceptance, but he knew they loved Sansa and could see his devotion to her.

Even the dark, long nights were getting shorter, although Sandor didn’t mind them so much as he spent most evenings with his wife and could often talk her into joining him beneath their furs in their massive bed. He simply couldn’t get enough of her, and for a man who had never had the same whore twice, he was shockingly content to realize he’d never sleep with another woman but her for the rest of his day. She had been all he’d wanted for so long, and now she was his.

He was proving to be a particularly astute and loving husband, and he had figured out more ways to have her than even he had considered. She was always ready and willing for him, and they were teased relentlessly about the sounds and screams of pleasure that came from their rooms. Sandor strutted about the keep when that happened. It was no secret just how much his wife loved him. And he didn’t mind the subtle japes. Everyone knew exactly who Sansa Stark belonged to. And there wasn’t a single person in the North that was willing to challenge Sandor for Sansa.

Which was another reason he liked his life as it were now. He had actually had friends; people like Pod, Jaime, Gendry, and Lord Royce. And more of the Northmen seemed to tolerate him each day. He may not be friends with those fuckers yet, but the men who rode with him when he left the keep liked to hunt and forage and provide for the people of the castle.

That was one of Sandor’s most pleasurable tasks. It made him feel useful when they were able to bring back fresh meat, to supplement the stores that Sansa had carefully calculated to feed the people through winter. Each animal that was added to Winterfell’s kitchens and tannery made the North stronger.

On evening Sansa casually commented how much he reminded him of her father. She told him that Ned Stark had always had a hand in providing for the people of Winterfell, and Sandor grunted at such a comparison. He liked how Sansa saw him as useful and that she didn’t just expect him to sit beside her in the Great Hall while she listened to petitioners. True to her word, Sansa let him be himself. And he couldn’t have loved her more for that if he tried.

Sandor had discovered that he had a bond with all three direwolves that now lived at the castle. He knew they had their masters, but each time he left to ride outside the Castle’s walls that were slowly being rebuilt, the wolves joined him. Sansa’s pretty little wolf Hope stayed the closest to him, and he knew that pup loved him almost as much as she loved her master.

_She bloody well should,_Sandor thought. He’d shared a bed with both of them for the three weeks since he’d found them. He might grumble but having that rapidly growing pup tucked up against his wife with her pregnant belly made Sandor feel content. Sansa was so in love with her it was mad sometimes, but like the truly whipped fool that he was, Sandor could deny her nothing.

Ghost was a fascinating animal, and Sandor loved to watch him hunt. Sometimes, if he could, he’d sneak away with all three wolves, and they’d lose themselves in the woods. Sansa always smiled at him lovingly when he’d return home with two exhausted direwolf pups and a happy Ghost trailing behind him. She’d also caught him feeing Hope the best scraps from the kitchen, and eat time they butchered an animal, he made sure both pups got some fresh meat.

“Just beasts meant for the kennel,” she said one day and he snatched his hand away from the meat as if he’d been burned. Sansa was grinning at him.

He smiled sheepishly. “She’s likes it fresh.”

Sansa snorted. “You’ll spoil her Sandor if you keep this up.”

Her eyes danced wickedly. Without a second thought, he lifted her over her shoulders, hearing a small peep from her pretty mouth and some mild protests as he stalked through the castle to their rooms. She was bright red by the time he put her down. He thought he might have crossed a line, until she attacked him and pushed him on the bed, climbing atop him and riding him to his best peak yet. They had been the talk of Winterfell for days after that, but both had enjoyed themselves so much they hardly cared.

Sandor knew that the Lords from the south would be arriving for a special meeting soon to decide on the fate of the Kingdom. There had been so much fighting, for so long, that Sandor had no idea how they would rebuild what was left of the seven kingdoms. Personally, he wondered why anyone would want to. Sandor had spent his entire life watching people destroy others simply to sit on the Iron Throne. He had no idea why anyone at all would want that horrible chair.

The first ones set to arrive was Sansa’s cousin from the Vale and then her Uncle, who had been held in the Frey dungeons, were expected to arrive by weeks end. The rest would be here sometime over the next two weeks. Change made Sandor nervous, and he didn’t know what to expect from such a gathering. He wasn’t dumb; too many Houses had either been completely decimated or destroyed in the Wars, the Red Keep was a smouldering pile of brick, and half the country wouldn’t trust another dragon on the throne even if he were half Stark, so the Starks were in one of the strongest positions in the entire realm. Still, he didn’t trust anyone but his wife and their few close friends.

Jaime and Sandor had spent a pleasant evening getting very drunk with Pod, Sam and Yohn Royce, discussing the possibilities. The Vale Knight had begun to accept Sandor when he saw the large man’s devotion to Sansa, and the two had somehow bonded.

Each day Sansa’s stomach grew and there was no doubts as to who would be giving the North its first heir. Sandor knew that many were happy at the sight of her pregnancy; it gave them hope and reminded them that spring was coming. And they saw how happy the Lady of Winterfell was with her loyal husband. It had been a long and trying time in the North with very little to celebrate.

The hard truth was things were in upheaval in the seven kingdoms and no one could say what was about to happen when everyone gathered here. All Sandor knew was that if anyone that tried to take Sansa away from him or take away her position, they would pay a steep price. One that would be paid with his sword. Sandor would defend Sansa to his dying breath, and whatever the Little Bird wanted, he would do his best to provide for her. There wasn’t a single person who was his equal these days in the entire realm and everyone knew it.

Sansa had asked Sandor’s opinion about the Northern Houses that still swore fealty to House Stark and specifically about House Glover. Robett Glover had been one of the first to pronounce Jon Snow King in the North but had turned on the bastard and swung his allegiance to Sansa when Jon had travelled south to try to convince the Dragon Queen to come North. That allegiance didn’t prove strong enough in the war with the Night King and the craven Lord had kept five hundred good men and his heir with him at Deepwood Motte. Sandor gave her a look when she asked what she should do.

“He disobeyed a direct order,” Sandor spoke plainly. “Summon him here to answer for his disobedience. If you don’t, other houses in the North will think they can do the same.”

Sansa sighed. She had been hoping to avoid such a confrontation, but knew it was the only way.

“And if he won’t come?”

Sandor snorted. “Tell him to answer the summons or he will feel the steel of the North.” Many men had returned home, but Sandor knew they could rally enough to make life very uncomfortable for those in Deepwood Motte. There were more loyal to her than to that cunt.

Sansa had sent the raven the next day and the response was immediate. With no threat, the Glovers would ride to Winterfell to deal with this _misunderstanding_. Sandor snorted at that. _Bunch of cunts, _he thought. His mood about House Glover did not improve when Sansa told him that they had been the first to propose a marriage between her and their heir, Gawan Glover, almost immediately when Jon had gone south for the second time to deal with Cersei.

“What did you say to them?” Sandor barked at her, and she arched an elegant eyebrow at him and then looked at her stomach.

“I had made my choice already, Sandor,” she said calmly.

He grunted, knowing he had left her all those months ago and really had no leg to stand on. She had begged him to stay and he was the dumb dog that left. Still, he hated the idea of another man sniffing around her. There were plenty of Northern Houses that would want Sansa Stark; Hornwood, Mazin, Tallhart, Cerwyn, Dustin, Ryswell, Manderly and Dormund all had noble sons of marriageable age. Even though Sansa was now married to him, he knew that there were plenty that thought she should have belonged to one of their sons. Sansa watched in astonishment as her husband stomped around the room, trying to get a handle on his jealousy. She could admit that at least he was trying. She knew it wasn’t that he didn’t trust her; it was himself that he struggled with. He never felt like he was good enough for her, and Sansa did everything in her power to reassure him. Still, it was tiring sometimes, and she wished he could just have faith in her and the fact that she chose him.

When she finally told him that one night, he stopped and stared at her, a stunned look on his face. He dropped to his knees and cradled her stomach.

“Little bird, I know you chose me, and I know you love me, you’ve shown me that well enough,” he told her. Then he sighed, not knowing how to explain that he thought she was worth so much more than him, even though he knew no one would love her more or do more to protect her. He ran a hand down his face, trying to figure out how to explain it to her.

“My whole life, I’ve watched people judge others based on their birth, their House and their wealth,” he told her. “I have nothing compared to someone like Jaime Lannister, or these other noble northern lords.” He saw the protest on her pretty lips and held up a massive hand to stop her. She pouted but he didn’t give in. “It’s just my own shit, Sansa. I know no one will love you better, or more than I will. But I still worry I took something from you.”

Sansa cocked her head. She appreciated that he was trying to explain what he felt. She knew words did not come easily to her fearsome husband.

“Ok, let’s play a game,” she said and indicated the chair and he heaved his body into it, pouring a glass of wine and settling in. He’d seen her when she got that look in her eyes, and knew he wasn’t going to get her out of her dress and into her warmth until she was good and ready. Even though the topic wasn’t the most pleasant, and even though he complained, Sandor had come to treasure these discussions they would have in their private solar most evenings. He was secretly thrilled that she sought his advice. He knew how smart his pretty wife was, and the fact that she saw him as worthy of discussion fed his ego.

“Let’s _pretend_,” she emphasized that word, and then gave him a look and he rolled his eyes at her, “Let’s pretend I can see your point, and none of this happened between us. That you had left, and we had never spent the night together. I would have to marry at some point; the North needs heirs. Arya won’t and neither can Bran, and no matter if Jon is a Snow or a Targaryen, he’s not a Stark. So, I have to find a husband that will take my name.”

Sandor nodded. He had come to understand just how powerful and important the name Stark was in the North.

“So that means no first-born sons,” Sansa said, “because no lord is going to allow their heir to take my name.”

Sandor frowned but nodded.

“So that leaves me with second sons. Second sons are generally very dutiful and will do what their father orders. But how many second sons would ever think to have a chance to marry the heir to Winterfell?”

Sandor grunted. “Not many.”

“No, not many,” she said. “And it is a very tempting prize. A wife, the Stark name, and the power that comes from being the Warden of the North.”

Sandor grimaced. He knew where she was going with this and knew her to be correct. Ramsey Snow had been wed to her for all those reasons and then had abused her and taken all her power.

“Say there was a second son, from a good Northern House that I did meet, and maybe even liked, how could I ever trust him Sandor?”

He saw the tears come to her eyes and cursed himself. “Fuck little bird, don’t listen to me,” he told her, and she waved a hand.

“No, this is good. You need to know Sandor, I don’t care about titles, or who a person’s father was, or what they bring me. I needed to trust the man who would be my husband. And there was only one person in all of Westeros that I trusted not to hurt me, not to rape me, not to steal my power and my independence. There was only one man I knew who didn’t care about my titles, or my position,” she said making sure she looked into his eye the entire time, knowing he could see the truth there.

“Sansa,” he breathed, lost in how much she did love him. He knew he had to get the jealousy and insecurities under control. He had to trust her when she’d said she’d chosen him. Each time he acted like a bear with a wounded paw, he undermined the decision she had made. And make no mistake; Sansa Stark had decided on him. He dragged her to his lap, and she snuggled into him.

“I’m sorry,” he said to her quietly and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll try to remember all of this,” he promised her, and she nodded, knowing that he would try.

It was one of the things she loved about him. He wasn’t perfect, but he always tried. She knew it would take time for him to fully understand and accept that she would have chosen no other but him, but these talks helped. It helped when he was willing to let her in, and to share his feelings with her. And she knew one day he would come to realize that she would have chosen him no matter what the Dragon Queen had ordered them to do. That she had chosen him that night of the feast and by keeping their child, not even knowing if he were coming back. Sansa knew that as deep as her scars were, both physical and emotional, he had many of his own. Each in their own way were very broken people, and only together could they be happy.

“How is the pup today?” he asked her, cradling her stomach and she gave him a watery grin, taking the out and changing the subject willingly.

“Good, I’m still tired,” she said and placed her hands over his. It was still amazing for her to look down and see evidence of a child growing there. Sansa had done everything in her power to avoid ever being pregnant with Ramsey. When she could, she would take moon tea. She thanked the gods she appeared barren with him, often wondering if his seed had been so evil like him that it couldn’t take root in her. She’d almost given up hope for a child of her own, until Sandor had come back to Winterfell.

When he finally coaxed her to bed, he spent hours worshiping her body, loving her, making her scream his name and peak again and again until he finally sunk into her and found his own pleasure. Cuddled in his arms later, she murmured, “I used to dream about you, in the Vale, or here, when I was all alone. Sometimes I had left with you that night in Kings Landing, and other times, you came and rescued me.”  
He cursed himself for fucking around for so long; the moment he’d heard she’d disappeared from Kings Landing he should have sought her out.

“Shhhh, I’m not telling you to make you feel guilty Sandor, I’m telling you, so you know it’s always been you,” she told him, and then met his gaze. He saw the truth in her eyes and nodded, before pulling her close where they both fell asleep, knowing that they had been luckier than most to be given this chance with each other.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*****************************~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Northern lords and houses loyal to the Starks began to arrive back at Winterfell over the coming week, along with Sansa’s cousin, Robin Arryn from the Vale and her Uncle Edmure Tully from the Riverlands.

Sansa worked tirelessly to get them all situated, and he frowned as he watched how exhausted she was. He tried to help where he could, but he wasn’t good at making the itchy Northern Houses feel welcome in the keep. He did spend some time with Robin Arryn, Sansa’s cousin. He seemed a good enough boy, if young still and green. Yohn Royce had been pleased to introduce them and Sandor saw as the Lord of Vale nodded to Sandor and accepted his marriage to Sansa.

“I’m glad my cousin has a man like you to protect her,” Robin said to Sandor.

Sandor watched as the young man’s eyes kept darting to the direwolves.

“Want to meet them?”

Sandor saw him hesitate and then he grinned. “Yes.”

Royce nodded his approval as Sandor let the Lord Arryn to meet Hope and RedWind. Later, Sansa complimented him on strengthening their alliance. He looked astonished; then embarrassed.

Sansa’s Uncle was another matter altogether. They hated each other on sight.

Sandor knew immediately that they would never get along and for good reason. Tywin Lannister had unleashed his monstrous brother Gregor in the Riverlands years ago, and the stories of what Gregor had done to the people there turned even Sandor’s blood cold. Upon meeting each other, Sandor told Lord of the Riverlands that he’d killed his brother and saw a small, grim smile come across Edmure Tully’s face.

Still, he was a Tully, and he’d pulled Sansa aside shortly after arriving to tell her that her marriage could be annulled now that Jon was King and that she needn’t stay married to such a man as him. Sandor had tried to control his urge to punch the man, but grinned as he watched Sansa step back from her Uncle and reveal her clearly pregnant stomach.

“He is my husband and Lord Stark, Uncle. Be very careful how you proceed.” Sansa’s eyes were flashing in anger.

Sandor almost grinned watching the man pale and scurry away, clearing not recognizing the wolf that his niece had become until it was too late.

Sandor became so frustrated one night at dinner, listening to all the lords complaining about the cramp accommodations, that he smashed his fist on the table in the Great Hall when he had to listen to one more nameless cunt whinging about his fucking quarters to Sansa as they tried to eat their supper.

“For fuck sakes,” he barked, his voice loud and commanding, “shut the fuck up and quit your whinging. You’ve got a roof over your head and food in your belly. Any of you cunts don’t like your quarters, you can meet me in the fucking training yard. I’ll beat you into a sleep.”

Silence dominated the room, until the man scoffed at Clegane. “I’ve brought twenty knights with me Dog, you don’t want to take me on.”

Sandor knew this was one of the Northern Houses that hadn’t sent aid during the war and searched his memory for the name. Gowan? Grott? Glover.

That was it. Before Sandor could respond, he saw Brienne stand, along with Jaime, Gendry, Pod, Yohn Royce and dozens of northern men he’d been training. Shocked, Lord Glover looked around the hall.

“You’d defend him?” he cried and pointed to Sandor’s half burnt face. “This southern dog, that stole Lady Sansa from the North.”

Sandor growled low and menacing and put his hand on his sword.

Then the man scoffed. “I guess she wasn’t really a Stark anymore. First a Lannister, then a Bolton. A traitor, and no longer a true Stark. I wouldn’t let me son’s dick touch that tainted cunt.” The man shot a withering look at Sansa and spit on the ground. “I pledged for Jon Snow, and he betrayed us. Then I pledged to Sansa Stark and she betrayed the North when she married this southern dog. House Glover will not let this usurper lead the North, no matter what he calls himself.”

Silence dominated the room and shocked and outraged glances looked at Lord Glover and then to Sandor.  
Jaime had a bad feeling about what was going to happen. He knew how much Sandor Clegane loved Sansa Stark. No one dared breathed wrong in her direction, unwilling to unleash the man’s wrath if they upset her in the slightest. And now this stupid bastard had insulted her in the worst way possible. He glanced quickly at his wife, and saw her anger was as potent as Sandor’s and Jaime was glad he kept his sword on him when he left his room each day. This could turn bad, quickly. He wouldn’t blame Sandor in the least if he took the man’s head, here and now. And he’d back him against anyone. Against all odds, Jaime and Sandor had become sort of friends.

Sandor had heard enough. He moved quickly for a big man, quicker than anyone could have predicted, and had his sword drawn and pulled tight against Lord Glover’s neck.

“Sansa Stark is the Lady of Winterfell and the Wardenness of the North. You will bend the knee to House Stark, or you will lose your head,” Sandor hissed at the man.

The man glared at Sandor, and the Knights that had come with him had all drawn their steal. Sandor couldn’t have cared less. The man had been craven and disloyal to House Stark since the moment the Army of the Dead had marked on their house. Winterfell had sacrificed so much and now this bastard wanted to call her unworthy? Not while he drew breath.

Sandor swung a quick look to his wife to see if he was wrong and saw her nod and stand. He knew she would back him and that he hadn’t overreacted.

“Lord Glover, you did not honor your pledge of loyalty to House Stark when we called for aid. You allowed good men to die in your place because you were too craven to fight for the North. By anyone’s definition that is at best desertion and perhaps even treasonous. Do you pledge yourself to House Stark here and now?” Her voice was pure steel. No one in the Hall doubted she was fully in charge of the North.

Even with Sandor’s sword at his neck, Sansa could see the defiance in the man’s eyes, and saw that he would never accept her as the ruler in Jon’s absence.

The man shot her a glare. He had been the Lord that was the most upset when it had been revealed that Jon had bent the knee, and though Sansa was loath to shed any more blood, he had insulted her and her husband, as well as their house.

“There are no Starks left in Winterfell.” The man’s eyes glittered in malice.

It was Bran’s voice that rang out.

“Lord Glover am I not a trueborn Stark?” and everyone saw Lord Glover’s eyes widen. He had forgotten about Ned Stark’s crippled son. “When House Stark called for your aid, it wasn’t just Jon Snow or my sisters; it was also me.”

Sandor saw the man whiten and begin to shake. He had defied a direct order from his sworn House.

“Perhaps some time in our dungeons would remind you of your oaths. A trial will be held, Lord Glover, where your crimes will be judged,” Sansa said evenly, betraying none of the misery that she was feeling. She was beyond embarrassed at this man’s words; and in front of Sandor. She worried he saw her the same way. Used.

Sandor let his sword drop as loyal Stark men came to lead the cowering lord away. Returning to his seat beside her, Sandor was afraid that she would be upset with him. He could see the pale and pinched look in her eyes and face, and her skin was even whiter than normal.

Concerned he lowered his voice, “I’m sorry Little Brid, if I overreacted,” he began, and he felt her hand reach out and grab his under that table and squeeze. She shook her head slightly.

“It is not you,” was all she would say, and he nodded. He wanted to kill that fucking cunt for what he’d said about her.

She turned and spoke with her brother, her Uncle, her cousin and Lord Royce, who also looked murderous; Lord Royce particularly. He had pledged his support to her when her and Jon took back the Castle from Ramsey Bolton and had stayed; through the Long Night and the war with the Night King and he had seen her for the ruler she was. He was as loyal to Sansa Stark as any Northern house and would not stand for anyone besmirching her reputation in such a way.

Sandor was lost in his own anger when Jaime came and took the seat on the other side of him. He’d spent a lot of time with the Kingslayer in the past couple months; first travelling back to Winterfell, and then training together each day in the yard. He knew that Jaime was anxious to leave, to get back to his family’s seat at Casterly Rock. So many Lannister soldiers had either died burning in Kings Landing or had been slaughtered by the Unsullied on the Dragon Queen’s orders and he had told Sandor that he felt a growing responsibility for those under his protection in the Westerlands. It would be years before they regained the men they had lost, but Jaime and his new wife were determined to be good for the people there. With Sandor now here as Sansa’s husband, Brienne had finally consented to leaving, once the meeting happened at Winterfell. Pod would be accompanying them, swearing his fealty to his liege Lord and Lady that House Payne had been pledged to for years.

“You weren’t wrong,” came Jaime’s voice beside Sandor, and the big man just grunted. He didn’t know how to be a Lord, but he wouldn’t stand for anyone speaking about his wife that way. “She needs you more than you know right now, Clegane,” Jaime muttered softly, and Sandor let his hand relax.

He realized he’d been clenching his wine glass so tightly he dented the metal. Jaime was right. She didn’t need him to be so angry he would scare her. He needed to act like the Lord he had become when he’d married her. Since they’d become friends, Sandor could take the Kingslayer’s advice without worrying it was being ill given.

Sandor took a deep breath to calm his outrage and looked at Jaime. He realized he’d never seen him quite so relaxed or happy. Finally, free from his overbearing father and manipulative sister, it seemed that the golden lion had finally found his place, and his happiness. Ironically it was with Brienne of fucking Tarth.

“Brienne’s almost a pissed as you are,” Jaime said and grinned widely and shot a loving look to his fierce wife who was scowling at the Glover lords. Everyone knew they were on shaky ground in the Hall.

Sandor snorted at the fucking look on Jaime Lannister’s face. The man was smitten with his wife that much was true. Sandor shook his head. He couldn’t understand what those two saw in each other. He just knew that they were made for each other. They beat on each other daily, and then would scurry off to their rooms, almost fucking giggling. It was disconcerting to see the big woman giggle the way she did. When Sandor had mentioned it to Sansa one night, she hit him on the shoulder, then she grinned and wondered when Brienne would announce a pregnancy. Sandor had spat his wine out so fast it sprayed over the table and Sansa howled in laughter at him. Sandor half wished that Tywin were still alive so he could see whom his son had married and who the new lady of Casterly Rock was. Then he wondered whose sons would be bigger and secretly hoped his would be. He’d train them to be fucking warriors, to be able to cut down any man or woman in the seven fucking Kingdoms. Mayhap one day in the future his son and Jaime’s would meet at a tourney.

“Fucking cunt,” Sandor grumbled and drained a glass of wine.

“I agree,” Jaime said amiably and then risked his other hand and swiped Sandor’s cup from him. When he growled at him, Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Your wife will need you tonight, Clegane. Don’t be a fucking fool. Being drunk, angry and hostile is not what Sansa needs.”

Sandor huffed and shot Jaime another look. He knew the man was correct. He knew his wife would be hurt and humiliated by what Lord Glover had said, and it was only her spine of steel that had prevented her from fleeing her own hall in shame. Sandor nodded at Jaime and turned to observe Sansa. He could see the strain as she discussed the matter with her family, and seeing that they had come to some agreement, she met his eyes. She smiled, but he could see the sadness there, and the slight embarrassment. Feeling his anger rise again, he leaned towards her.

“Let’s find your little wolf, Sansa and go to the godswood,” he told her and saw the relief in her face.

She nodded and rose from her seat, holding her hand out to his. He took it willingly, and soon enough, he found himself in the snow and the cold with three wolves and a look of relief on his wife’s face. She had put a bench by the great weirwood tree, and he sat his arse down and patted his lap, where she willingly snuggled into him, content to watch the wolves sniff and play.

“Thank you,” she mumbled to him and he grunted. He reminded himself once again that she did not need his anger; only his support.

“I’m sorry if what he said embarrassed you,” Sansa’s soft voice reached him, and he heard the pain in it and was a bit confused.

Why would he be embarrassed? He was beyond angry, but not at her and never embarrassed.

“I know that some men would not like to marry a woman who’s been so used like I have, and to be the third man…”

“Sansa stop,” Sandor said his voice deep and commanding when he realized where her thoughts had taken her and turned her face to look at him. She had tears tracking down her beautiful face, and Sandor swore that cunt would fucking die for doing this to her.

She shook her head. “I’m not stupid, Sandor. I know men like to be the first…” she had turned her face away from him again.

He huffed out a frustrated breath and tried not to swear. He knew she needed him to be gentle right now. She wasn’t her wild sister. She was his wife and he needed to stop this line of thinking. Immediately.

“Sansa, love, stop and listen.”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes until he once again cradled her face in his massive hands, so he could look directly in her eyes. What he saw there devastated him. She should never, ever have been made to feel less than the amazing woman she was.

“First off, the only reason I would ever be upset that you weren’t a virgin was because your first time should never had been with someone so vicious. It should have been all about you, Little Bird and I hate that your first time being with a man was like that.” She sucked in a breath and let it out, feeling her body relax.

“Second, no one, none of these northern fucking cunts knows what you survived in Kings Landing.”

Sandor’s jaw tightened at the thought of how ill-used she’d been. Joffrey, Baelish and Ramsey. None of them, not even her cousin or her vicious sister knew the hell she’d endured down there before she’d been put through hell in her own home.

“Nothing you did brought shame to your house or to me and our marriage. I’m the luckiest fucker in the seven Kingdoms to be married to you. Any of those cunts would be the luckiest fucker in the seven Kingdoms to have your hand, Sansa. You are worth a million of them.”

“Sandor,” she said, and her voice was a mixture of awe, longing, love and devotion. Their shared history was so much of why Sansa knew he would be the only man for her; she’d known it for years and when he’d ridden back into her life, she’d had to restrain herself from going to him that first day, lest she lose him again. And then he’d survived the Long Night and she’d taken a chance. Because she’d loved him for so long, and she knew, deep in her soul that he was the one man who would never, ever hurt her.

“I love you so much,” she said, and the tears poured from her eyes, her slim shoulders shaking as she sobbed out her hurt, and anger and embarrassment. She had been through hell and had only fought for the North; to take back her home and to keep the North safe. And she would not be questioned by a House that had broken their vow to them. “I want him dead,” she whispered, and Sandor nodded.

“Aye, as do I,” he agreed. “Tomorrow.” He knew one way or the other, Robett Glover’s time was done.

Sansa squeezed him harder and nodded, thankful they were in accord.  
Hope, sensing that something was amiss, came to them, nudging at Sandor’s leg until Sansa reached down to bury her face in her soft fur. Finally composed again, Sansa stood and took the wolves and Sandor back to Winterfell. Tomorrow they would deal with the lord from House Glover. Tonight, she knew her husband would make her forget the horrors she had lived through, by worshiping her body and reminding her of what they had survived and how much they loved each other.

Jaime watched as Sandor and Sansa exited the hall. He could feel the unease in the room, with more and more Northern houses arriving by the day, as well as Lords from across the Kingdom. Once again, Winterfell would be the place where the fate of Westeros was decided. Some Northern Houses were deeply loyal to House Stark, but others, Jaime knew, sensed an opportunity and with word spreading that the Dragon Queen was dead, perhaps a power vacuum. They would be idiots to do so. House Stark was still the most powerful House in the North, and Sansa Stark might just sit on the Iron Throne by the end of all this madness. She had been born to do it; any fool could see that.

And any idiot who challenged her would die, quickly and surely as long as Sandor Clegane was by her side. The man’s reputation had only grown since he’d returned; didn’t these fools understand that he’d slain five of Cersei’s best Queensguard as if they were mere squires?

Those who were loyal to House Stark, including the Vale knights, would destroy these decimated Northern Houses that did not pledge total fealty to House Stark, especially with Sansa Stark now firmly entrenched at Winterfell. Jaime knew it mattered not what the other houses may want; the North belonged to the Starks, and more specifically to Sansa Stark, with her intimidating husband and heir on the way.

More amusing was to see his wife’s reaction. One thing he loved about her was just how much she adored Sansa. Jaime was willing to bet that Brienne had not had many friends that were women in her life, and even though they were very different, the two women were close. As anxious as he was to return to Casterly Rock, he knew it would be hard for Brienne to leave Sansa.

He was also starting to suspect that his wife might be pregnant; or maybe he just desperately wanted her to be. He knew they had only been married for a month, and it was too soon to tell. It was only the little things that gave his suspicions hope. He swore her breasts were just a bit larger. Her nipples seemed more sensitive. She tasted just the tiniest bit different when he spent hours between her thighs. He hadn’t said a thing yet, but he knew that Brienne wanted a child as much as he did.

The past three weeks, since she had admitted she still loved him, Jaime devoted himself to her, and was happy that she seemed willing to accept him by her side. It made him excited to think about returning to the Rock; a place where many of his happiest memories were.

But for now, they needed to stay here. He wondered what would happen when all that remained of the seven Kingdoms once more gathered in the halls of Winterfell. What would Jon Snow, or Aegon Targaryen do with the realm?

Jaime half wished his father were here to see how it had all come tumbling down. He wondered if Tywin had ever suspected about Jon’s true heritage, but then dismissed the thought. Had his father known, he surely would have found a way to have the boy killed.

After Jaime had done his duty as a friend to the Hound, and wasn’t that just fucking bizarre, that they were actually friends, he returned to his seat beside his wife who was scowling at the men gathered in the Halls.

“My love, you won’t slay them with that look alone,” he japed with her and she turned her bright, angry eyes on him.

“it was wrong, what Lord Glover did. He and his House disobeyed a direct order. And what he said about Lady Sansa…” Brienne was in such a rage she couldn’t even finish her sentence.

She had disclosed the state that she had found Sansa Stark in one night after he’d made love to her and she lay on her stomach and he traced her lovely back muscles with his tongue. He’d heard rumors of course, but when Brienne had broken down and told him how she’d been raped on her wedding night, and then carved, burned, branded and abused in her own home by the Bolton bastard that they had forced her to wed, even his blood had run cold. He thought how much of a failure he’d been to Catelyn Stark at that moment. While it was true that he hard armed and armoured Brienne allowing her to eventually save Sansa, nobody should have had to endure what she had. Brienne had let herself sob into his chest as he held her, her own torment and close call with the Bolton men making her realize how close she had come to suffering a similar fate.

“I’d give my hand again, if that was the only way to save you or her from those bastards,” Jaime whispered to her and she’d locked her blue eyes on his.

“Jaime,” she breathed and then launched herself at him, kissing him passionately and fitting her body over his, sinking onto him and riding them both to their peaks.

Afterwards, when she once again lay in his arms, she murmured how she hoped if they had a daughter that they could keep her safe from men like that.

“Of course, my love,” Jaime whispered and pressed a kiss to her forehead, overcome at the thought of having another daughter one day. Brienne must have caught a look in his eye.

“What is it Jaime?” she asked, curious.

He swallowed hard. “I wondered about a name,” he said and then averted his eyes. Perhaps he was too presumptuous to discuss such things with his wife.

Brienne grasped his chin and turned his face back to hers. She gave him a look that said, _don’t be an idiot and tell me_, and Jaime nodded.

He pressed a quick kiss to her lips, and then spoke softly. “I wondered if we had a daughter if we might name her Joanna, after my mother,” he said to Brienne and she saw his eyes soften when he spoke of her.

Brienne felt the lump in her throat and could only nod, before she choked out, “I think that’s a lovely name.” They let their joined hands drift down to her still taunt stomach, both hoping a Maester could confirm a pregnancy soon.

Presently, Jaime could see that if he didn’t take his wife from the Hall, she would surely end up in a fight. Not that he worried for her; he just knew that Sansa wouldn’t appreciate having the clean-up blood from the Great Hall.

“Come Ser Brienne,” he said and pulled her to her feet reluctantly. “He will be dealt with tomorrow, and I suspect that our dear Hound will swing the killing blow.” Jaime had seen the cold, hard truth in the man’s eyes. Lord Glover would not leave this castle alive; not after the insults he’d lobbied at the man’s wife. Jaime shook his head philosophically at that thought. The man clearly had to be an idiot not to realize just how in love Sandor Clegane was with Sansa Stark. And there wasn’t another knight in the seven kingdoms, save the one that he fucked each night that could even hope to take the man in one on one combat. Jaime half suspected that given the chance, Brienne would take Lord Glover’s head herself.

Gods, he loved her, Jaime thought as they stripped and crawled into bed, shivering in the cold room despite the fire and the furs. He might have come to tolerate the North, but that night once Jaime had worn off the worst of Brienne’s anger, he couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to sleep beside her with the sound of the Sunset Sea crashing into the Rock, while the warm breeze from the southern sea ensured they didn’t have to huddle like bears in hibernation under seven layers of furs. Jaime prayed that Jon Snow and his brother arrived soon; he was ready to take his wife home finally take his place as Lord of Casterly Rock.

The next morning, midday a trail was held for Lord Glover in the Great Hall. The man was accused of treason; betraying his House and not answering the call when the raven had arrived from Sansa Stark against the war of the dead. The man sputtered and his heir protested vehemently, but Sansa and Bran were not swayed. He had betrayed their House, abandoning them and the others at the most crucial hour and for that he would lose his head.

It was Stark guards that led the man to the yard, but Sandor who swung the sword. Sansa stood back from her husband, but her eyes never left his as he carried out his duty as Lord of Winterfell. For Sandor, killing had long since stopped being the sweetest thing. That had been replaced by Sansa, but he felt a grim sense of pride and satisfaction when the man’s head left his body.

Sansa’s voice rang through the yard, and she met the faces of each and every Northern House. “Anyone who betrays House Stark will pay for their treason.”  
The few houses that may have been unsure of her leadership, were grudgingly impressed by her fortitude. Her and Sandor reminded them a bit of Ned and Catelyn Stark, and at least the man looked like a Northerner. Sansa saw nods of acceptance from those houses, and knew when Jon returned, that those that said they were loyal to House Stark, would be speaking honestly.

Sansa left the yard, and Sandor followed her, a giant sentinel at her back, and glared at anyone who got too close. He knew she wanted the Godswood. Even though the Night King had killed Theon here, it was the place she always came when she was upset. When they got there, Sandor expected to find his wife crying, but instead she was quiet and contemplative. They sat silently for a time, and Sansa appreciated that Sandor knew when to be quiet.

“My father always came and prayed here after he carried out a sentence,” Sansa stated, and Sandor wondered briefly if she expected that of him. She gave him a small smile and shook her head, as if reading his thoughts.

“I don’t find pleasure in such things,” she told him, “But I am proud that I am strong enough to pass such judgements,” Sansa said contemplatively. “I wasn’t, years ago.” Sandor grunted at that. Then she told him how they had tricked Petyr Baelish, Arya doing the deed, but Sansa had passed the sentence.

“Fucker deserved it,” Sandor muttered, knowing that Littlefucker had used her for his own gain.

She smiled at him, her fierce and loyal and loving husband. She was proud at how he’d kept his head yesterday. She knew he’d been in a rage, but he had remained controlled, and he would need that if they were to rule the North together.

The more Sansa thought, and worried about the upcoming meeting, the more she wanted the North’s independence. She wasn’t sure how she might achieve that, and she didn’t much care if it were her or Bran or maybe even Jon that was head of the North, but she knew in her heart that she would never bow to another monarch again, no matter who they were. She smiled slightly at that thought and when she told Sandor he simply nodded. More and more he’d come to understand her position and could see the merits of what she proposed, and if that meant he’d be married to a Queen, well then, he’d adjust. Whatever Sansa wanted or needed; Sandor Clegane would do everything in his power to give her.


	10. Chapter 10

Sansa had received word that those travelling from the south would be here in three days’ time. She’d also heard from Yara Greyjoy who would be at least another five days, the weather having delayed her travel. Sandor watched his wife fret all night, until he’d finally threatened to pick her up and tie her to the bed if she didn’t stop writing at her desk. His tone might have been gruff, but she knew he was just worried about her. She was at least three and a half months pregnant, and each day she pushed herself from dawn until dusk. Sandor had left the room briefly and found Sam and Brienne and Lord Royce and told them that he was keeping Sansa in their rooms late the next morning and that they could handle whatever arose. He didn’t even wait to hear the japes, before he made his way to the kitchens and requested that food be sent to Lady Sansa’s room in the morning for her to break her fast.

“Yes, M’lord,” came the polite reply. Sandor almost growled that he wasn’t a lord, before he turned and sighed, remembering that he actually was one. When he finally got back to their rooms, Sansa had banked the fire and crawled beneath the furs. She sent him a sheepish look and he saw her rapidly growing wolf at the foot of the bed. Ghost was gone; Sandor suspected he knew that Jon was close and wouldn’t be surprised if the wolf had gone to find him. Or he was hunting, knowing he’d need to be in the Castle over the next few days when Jon returned.

When Sansa had received Arya’s raven, she said that Jon was suffering after what he felt he’d allowed to happen. Sansa had bitched about that for an hour, until Sandor finally tuned her out, simply content to watch her ever growing body pace the room.

Tonight though, he was happy to see that she had quit on her own, before he’d had to drag her away from her work.

“Done now, are we Little Bird?” he said with a frown on his face thinking about how hard she worked.

“Yes, husband,” she said in a singsong voice and he grunted, before he quickly shucked his clothes off and climbed beneath the furs. She shrieked when he pressed his cold feet against her warm legs, and then giggled as he hauled her against him. He was such a large man, and Sansa loved that even with her height, she was dwarfed by him. She had discovered that her husband liked to cuddle. When she’d gently teased him about it, he grunted that he held her like this because if anyone were to come through the door to their room, he would be better able to defend her as they often slept with his back to the door and her cradled protectively in his arms. While that was technically true, there were very few nights when Sandor didn’t make sure she was tucked up against him all night long if she strayed too far. For Sansa, it was wonderful to be so loved and feel so protected. Sandor always rested his hands on her growing stomach, and she’d seen the fascination and slight fear in his eyes when he looked at tummy.

Right now, however, Sansa was in the mood for more than cuddling. She wiggled slightly so that she pushed her arse against him, knowing he’d be wanting her, and hummed until he lifted her one leg, stroked her to make sure she was ready and sunk into her.

There were nights when he spent hours worshiping her; licking, touching, tonguing, and stroking. Then there were others when he simply wanted to be in her. She had no complaints either way.

In the almost six weeks since their wedding, Sansa had learned that her husband’s need for her was insatiable, and luckily, hers for him was the same. Each experience gave her something back. If he wanted to do something new, he always stopped and asked her.

One time he’d gotten a bit rougher with her, and she’d been so deep into her pleasure that she hadn’t realized he’d stopped and had a horrified look on his face. She would have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so serious, so she cupped his face and reassured him she would always be honest with him in their intimacy. He needed to know her boundaries and he always asked about them. Sansa never thought she’d be a woman that would be comfortable asking for things in the bedroom or telling her husband what to do or what she wanted, but it made things easier for them both especially given her history. The last thing Sandor ever wanted to do was hurt her, and knowing that, it gave Sansa the confidence she needed.

Plus, watching a man like Sandor pant after her made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the seven Kingdoms even as she grew larger.

She had noticed how other women looked at him. He’d deny it until his dying breath, but Sansa knew there was more than one women in her keep that would gladly warm her husband’s bed. He had no idea that with his height, his straight, his new clothing and his gruff manner, women fairly panted after him up here. She’d even come across a few of them in the kitchen and overhead them talking about what his best attributes must be.

“Whatever it is,” one woman said, “He sure makes our lady scream.”

Another snorted. “Man like him? Course he does.”

Sansa wanted to be embarrassed but she felt a sense of pride that a man like Sandor wanted her so much. She’d left quickly after hearing that, needy and wanting her husband. She’d dragged him away and had her way with him for an entire afternoon. He’d wondered but hadn’t said a thing about her sudden needs.

Tonight, he knew they were both exhausted, and he wanted her to find her pleasure easily and quickly, so he worked her expertly, having paid close attention to what Sansa liked. Soon she was making those little pants and whimpers that made him harden further, and he rubbed her just a little bit more before she screamed his name and bought him crashing down with her.

After as his hands cupped her growing stomach, and he nuzzled her neck, he heard her whisper, “What if it’s a girl?”

Sandor stilled and then saw Sansa’s shoulders start to shake, a sure sign she was crying. He had no idea what the fuck he’d done.

“Little bird?” he asked a question in his voice.

Sansa wiggled and turned to him.

“What if the baby is a girl?” she cried and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her face to his chest and crying. Sandor was flabbergasted. He had no idea how this night had gone from him making his wife peak and cry out his name, to his wife sobbing into his chest. He hadn’t said anything about what he hoped the baby would be. He was just happy to get the chance to be a father. Of course, he’d thought about having three or four strong sons that would protect her if anything happened to him, but he’d also dreamed of a little girl with red hair and grey eyes who looked just like Sansa and loved him as much as his little bird did.

Before Sandor could respond, she mumbled into his hairy chest, “All men want an heir,” and Sandor snorted at that.

Her blue eyes whipped up to him and narrowed, tears almost gone. “What does that snort mean?”

_Gods_, Sandor thought, _He hated when her temper was up, but she was stunning when her blue eyes flashed._He’d been told by Jaime that women got emotional and irrational when they were pregnant, but for fucks sakes, she was making his head spin.

“Sansa I never even thought I’d have a child in this lifetime, so I don’t fucking care if it’s a girl or a boy,” Sandor told her, begging whatever god that was listening that she saw the truth in his eyes.

She bowed her head a bit, then looked at him again, and he was grateful he saw no new tears in her eyes. “But what about an heir, Sandor?” she asked softly.

He snorted again. “Do you honestly think your first born being born a girl would stop her from taking her rightful place here?” He arched his one eyebrow at her.

They’d talked extensively about what she wanted from this coming meeting, and Sandor knew she would settle for nothing less for then the North’s total and complete independence. And that meant the North would need a King or a Queen. Neither could see Bran taking that role, as he’d declined it once already. Jon was not really a Stark, and Sansa worried that none of the Northern Houses would accept him as their King ever again, even if she would. And everyone knew Arya would never stay to be a noblewoman in a Castle. That left Sansa. Sandor had resigned himself to the fact that he could be married to a Queen in a matter of days. It was an absurd notion and had anyone spoken it out loud even six months earlier Sandor would have pissed himself with laughter. Sandor had come North to fight for the living, to fight for Sansa and to fight for Arya. He had not come North expecting to find that the woman he had loved for years, loved him just as much. And then to be married to a Queen.

Sansa worried her lower lip at the thought that if they had a daughter, she could inherit Winterfell. The more she thought about the idea, the more she liked it. Perhaps she would start a new way of succession, not based on gender but order of birth. Arya would at least support her on that idea.

“Do you think that it’s possible?” Sansa asked Sandor and he gave her a look, one that said she was being silly.

“Sansa think of everything you and that bitch of a sister of yours have survived,” he said.

Sansa took no offence to how he described Arya. She knew he had a deep affection for her. He’d confessed that he sometimes thought of her as family, even before he’d married Sansa. He knew he’d done things for House Stark to protect both of them because of what he’d felt for Sansa to begin with, but Arya had also learned from him and he’d come to respect her and care for her. Sure, she’d learned how to murder a man from him, but she’d also learned how to stay alive and defend herself.

“Besides, you wouldn’t be the only house to have a woman inherit. Those fucking she-bears do it. Vicarious women,” he said but Sansa heard the note of pride in his voice.

Somehow, she doubted her daughter would spend all her time sewing and learning to be a lady like she had. With Sandor as her father, she’d probably learn how to hold a sword or a dagger the moment she could walk. And Sansa would be grateful for that. Their daughters would always know how to defend themselves.

Sansa looked at him then and saw the truth in his eyes. He wouldn’t care if their first child was a girl.

“I want more than one child,” she said instantly and saw his eyes widen before they filled with love and lust and he leaned down to kiss her passionately.

“As many as you fucking want,” he said and rubbed her belly. “We’ll fill the fucking halls of this keep with our pups. And our sons will be big fuckers that can take on Brienne of fucking Tarth’s children,” he muttered, and Sansa let out a pretty laugh. He was still bitter the big woman had bested him.

“And I suppose our daughters will also know how to defend themselves?” she asked, her voice drier than the Dornish desert.

“Fuck yes,” he said and gave her a knowing look.

She laughed at him and pressed her lips back to him.

“You’re excited, aren’t you?” she asked, settling back down in his arms.

He was quiet for a time, just holding her, happy he’d avoided yet another Sansa meltdown.

“Never thought I’d have any of this,” he mumbled. “Not a wife, or a home. Or children.”

Sansa’s heart broke a little bit at the loneliness in his voice. He’d been by himself for so long. But never again. His place was here with her, and he was never leaving.

She brought his hand up to her lips and pressed a kiss to his palm. “We’ll fill our home with our children Sandor, and no one will ever doubt how strong and powerful the Starks are again. We will never be alone again, my love.”

It was moments like this where Sandor wondered if he was dreaming all of this; perhaps he was buried beneath the ruble at the bottom of Kings Landing, or had gone to some weird place after his death, where he was being tortured with might have beens, only to wake up one day and realize that it had all been in his mind.

But then Sansa wrapped his arms around her and snuggled in closer to him. He could smell her hair, lemons and lavender, and touch her soft skin. Her wolf pup was lost somewhere in the big bed and he could hear Hope’s gentle snores. And his hands, his rough and scarred hands that had killed so many, had caused so much hurt and pain, lay protectively over her growing stomach and he knew it was all real. That somehow, without deserving it, or even asking for it, he’d gotten everything he’d ever wanted.

“I love you, Sansa,” he whispered to her, and she mumbled, “I love you as well, Sandor,” back to him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***************************~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sometimes Sansa liked to watch riders approach from the old battlements, or from one of the new ones that had been rebuilt. Other times, she preferred to wait in the Great Hall to greet the lords that came to Winterfell. But when word arrived that Arya and Jon had been spotted and were moments away, Sansa grasped Sandor’s hand at the head table where they were eating. He could see the excitement on her face, and he nodded. They would greet them in the yard; the way Starks had always welcomed the Kings of Westeros to Winterfell.

Jaime was excited as well. It would be the first time he’d see his little brother in months, and he briefly wondered how Tyrion was coping with everything. He had been the one to bring the Dragon Queen to the shores of Westeros. Jaime knew he was not alone in this endeavour, but his help had made her conquest of the seven kingdoms possible.

Jaime knew that Tyrion was not their father or their sister and that the death of so many innocent lives would weigh heavily on him. As it should. Jaime had questioned his brother about the Dragon Queen the moment he’d arrived at Winterfell and Tyrion had said she’d be good for the realm, that she was different. Jaime wondered what his brother thought of his Queen now.

In his worst nightmares he could still smell the burning flesh of the caravan of men that has looted Highgarden and hear the screams of agony. And those had been soldiers. How did one recover from knowing the woman they had chosen to be Queen had done that to children? To the elderly? To innocent people simply living their lives? Jaime had been faced with such a choice, and he’d chosen to destroy his own honor rather than let that many people die.

Jaime was worried about the state of mind of both Jon Snow and Tyrion.

Jaime exchanged a look with Sandor. Even he could see Sansa’s excitement, but he worried about the people that were coming back here. In a way, once the Night King had been defeated, the North had been spared the horror at what that those who had gone south had to endure.

Regardless, the time had finally come, and soon enough Jaime found himself alongside Brienne, Pod, Gendry, Lord Royce, Sansa, Sandor and Bran waiting for the new King of Westeros to ride into Winterfell.

First through the gates was Jon Snow, followed by Arya. The moment he came into the yard, Jon’s eyes locked with Sansa’s. He remembered this same scene, but now there was no silver haired Queen by his side to placate so she didn’t get angry and burn them all to a crisp. Jon felt like the entire weight of the country was on his shoulders, and seeing his cousin, he knew she would make things right. He’d known that Sansa was the smartest of them all. He’d tried to listen to everything she’d said and done everything possible to keep her and Bran safe and from Dany’s wrath.

He thanked the Gods that she was here; alive, whole and well. He slid from his horse and she ran to him and he simply buried himself in her arms. They were both crying, and she was stroking his hair and murmuring to him, telling him she was so happy he was home, that it would all be alright, that he had saved them all.

He whimpered at that thought, the image of the burnt bodies littering the streets of Kings Landing a constant loop in his head.

“She burned the whole city, Sansa, and I couldn’t do a thing to stop her,” he murmured to her, his voice broken. Sansa knew that she needed to get her cousin out of the yard. She pulled back slightly and looked in his eyes.

“Come with me, now Jon,” she told him softly before Ghost bumped against them and Jon sunk to his knees and buried his face in the direwolf’s white fur.

“Oh gods, boy, I’ve missed you,” he said.

Sandor met Sansa’s eyes. Her cousin was a broken man, and he understood they needed to get him away from the curious and prying eyes in the yard. Thank god for Ghost and the distraction he caused.

Arya had slid off her horse and came to stand beside Sansa and Sandor. She arched an eyebrow at her sister’s clearly pregnant form, and then they threw themselves into each other’s arms.

“He needs us Sansa,” Arya whispered, and Sansa nodded.

When they broke apart, Arya smiled and pressed a hand to Sansa’s stomach and gave Clegane a look.

“I trust that you won’t be leaving her again,” Arya stated, and Sandor barked a laugh at her.

“Fucking hells, girl, where would I go?” and Arya saw him grin and grab Sansa’s hand. A look of such utter devotion crossed his scarred and ugly face that Arya wondered who this man was. This was not the Hound that she had spent so many hours with, travelling around Westeros. This was a man that was clearly in love with her pretty sister and happy with his place in their home.

Arya took in his new northern cloak, and his new warm clothing, and that stupid look on his face when he looked at Sansa. Shaking her head, Arya almost missed the streak of white and grey and red fur as the puppies raced out to the yard.

There was so few things left in this world that could shock Arya but seeing two brand new direwolf pups did. It brought a look of pure joy to her face. She fell to her knees and they tumbled and nipped and licked her.

She looked at her sister in wonder, and then to Jon, who for the first time in months had a look of happy astonishment on his face.

“How?” the King asked, wonder in his voice.

Sandor coughed and Ghost licked his hand. “It seems your Ghost and the biggest fucking direwolf I’ve ever seen thought that Sansa and Bran needed to be reunited with the wolves that they lost.”

“Nymeria,” Arya breathed, and Sandor shot her a look and nodded once.

“What are their names?” Jon asked, feeling a sense of peace wash over him. He was home, and gods willing, he was never leaving again. The North was in his blood; wolves and snow and cold, long nights. Not dragons and madness and fire.

“This is Hope,” Sansa said, her pretty face bright and cheerful as the little pup came to her and wiggled.

“And this is Red Wind,” Bran said for the first time, and his pup came to sit by his chair.

“It’s a miracle,” Jon said, awestruck by the wolves, and the Stark’s all nodded at one another.

“Come, Jon, I’ve prepared your rooms,” Sansa said, and the wolves fell in beside them as her and Sandor took the King into the castle.

Sansa knew there were days of discussions ahead of them, but that could wait. Her anger and frustration with him could wait. It could all wait. Her family was finally, at last home. Right now, Jon needed them, and he was family. There were no dragons to threaten them, and no silver haired Queen to make him choose sides between them and her.

Sansa stuck her arm through Jon’s as Sandor followed behind. Once they got to the new chambers Sansa had prepared for him, she let him enter. A bath had been drawn, and new clothes laid out for him. She turned and took her leave but told him they would talk afterwards in their private solar, when he was ready.

He nodded at her, tears in his eyes. Left alone, he realized that Sandor had not left with his wife.

“She’s well?” Jon asked and Sandor nodded and then sighed and rubbed a hand down his face.

“She’s glad your back,” Sandor said and saw a look of relief cross Jon’s face.

That was enough for now and Sandor took his leave as the King of the Seven Kingdoms stripped down and sunk into his bath. After a time, he cleaned himself, and then too tired for anything else, heartsick and broken, crawled beneath the furs and felt Ghost settle beside him. For the first time since Jon had known about the threat of the Night King, he felt a measure of peace steal over his soul. His family was safe. He was alive. They’d survived two great wars, at a terrible price, but his sister was happy and wed, and by the looks of it, pregnant. For the first time, he felt like he could rest. The wolves had come back to the North, and Jon Snow, or Aegon Targaryen or whatever his fucking name was, had no plans on leaving ever again.

Jon slept for two days. And for two days Sansa fretted over him.

Sandor rolled his eyes as his wife worried about her cousin, checking on him every so often. Their rooms were adjacent to each other, so she could slip in and out easily. Sandor might have been jealous, but the way that Sansa looked at him, left no room for it. He was starting to realize just how much his wife loved him.

“He looked so broken,” Sansa said quietly in Sandor’s arms that first evening and wept for him as Sandor held her. He sighed, and he knew the road in front of the new King would be long and arduous.

“We’ll help him, Sansa,” Sandor said as he held his wife. Fuck, he thought, they were all so young and had been through so much, Sansa and Arya and Jon were all in their twenties, not even three decades old any of them.

More than anything, Sandor simply wanted peace. Peace for the people and everyone who had suffered. He wanted his child to grow up here in Winterfell, and not know the fear of wars and tyrants and mad Kings and cruel Queens. He just wanted time for them all to rebuild and recuperate. He whispered these hopes to Sansa, sharing a part of himself he didn’t even knew existed and she nodded. She had the same dreams. She thought it was a miracle that a man like Sandor Clegane could want peace after a lifetime of violence.

When Jon finally emerged on the third day, everyone but the Ironborn had arrived for the summit, but he was in no condition to meet with the Lords of the Realm and Sansa put her foot firmly down, addressing those that had come in the Great Hall of Winterfell.

Everyone had heard what had happened to Lord Glover and no one argued with her. They would wait until Sansa said it was time to meet. Sandor had stood by her side as she’d told everyone, and his presence alone was enough to deter them from arguing with her.

Arya shook her head at them. She didn’t miss the hand that Sandor had possessively on Sansa’s back, looming over her, glaring menacingly at anyone who even dared look at Sansa wrong. He finally had what he wanted, and Sansa looked like she couldn’t be happier. It really was all Arya had wanted for both of them.

When Sansa left the Great Hall with Sandor and Arya, she ordered a meal to be brought to their family solar. Sam and Gilly, who was further along than Sansa gave Jon a happy smile when they saw him. Bran was there as well, along with Sandor, Sansa, Lord Royce, Davos and Gendry, who had been learning what it took to become a Lord.

Jon gratefully dove into his plate of food, washing it down with a hearty winter ale, and let the other’s and their conversations wash over him, content just to be home and with his family. He watched as Sandor and Sansa couldn’t keep their hands from touching, even if it was a simple brush of their fingers against one another. He’d also noticed that his cousin was pregnant, and that Sandor used every opportunity to feel her stomach.

Arya rolled her eyes at him, and punched him good naturedly on the shoulder, but he could see his she was happy for them.

Jon had never seen Sansa quite so radiant, and it hurt, he could be honest, to be in the presence of someone who was so happy and so in love. He had begun to realize that he would never have that in this lifetime. Still, after everything she’d gone through, she deserved it, even if Jon could not fully understand her choice of Sandor Clegane. The man scowled at everyone else but looked at Sansa as if she were the maiden and the mother herself.

Eventually, he was full, and Jon pushed his plate aside and the group looked at him. He sighed, ragged and worn and wondered where to start.

“I tried to take your advice, the whole time, Sansa,” he began almost begging her to believe him. Unlike Arya and Bran, Sansa and Jon had been there for each other at the very lowest points of their lives. They had given each other hope and a sense of family back, and they had fought together to take back their family home.

“I need you to know that. I played the game. I played the game so well, she fell in love with me, pledged armies and dragons to fight for the North, against the Night King.” Jon paused, and his voice deepened and met Sansa’s eyes. “I knew the moment we came here, it was a mistake, but I couldn’t undo it. The Night King was comin’ and she hated you Sansa. Every time she threatened you, I did what she wanted, said what she wanted to hear. I did everything because she would have hurt you. All of you. My whole family. She would have burnt you alive if I had done anything she didn’t like.”

He sat there, broken and feeling alone.

“We know, Jon,” Sansa said, tears in her eyes and her heart breaking for him. She had talked for a long time with Arya and Bran. They had both told her missing pieces of the story, and she knew that Jon had done what he thought was right, what he had to do, and what he needed to do in order to protect them. In some ways, none of this was his fault. She had the dragon glass material that they had needed to kill the wrights, dragons to fight them and a huge army.

“I never imagined anything like what happened at Kings Landing,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper. “Once the bells rung, she was supposed to stop. They were all supposed to stop,” he muttered and wiped the tears that tracked down his face away angrily.

Sansa sighed. She had already forgiven him for everything, and she hoped he’d forgiven her for telling Tyrion about his true parentage. How could anyone have known what she would do when she marched on Kings Landing, that all those events would pile on and contribute to Dany’s true nature coming through?

Even Sansa couldn’t blame Jon for that. The time for anger and recriminations and blame was over. Now it was time to fix what was broken and to heal. To live.

She went to kneel before him and cupped his hands in her cheeks. “I asked you once if you bent the knee because you loved her, or if you did it for the North.”

“It was always for the North, Sansa. For you, for Bran, for Arya. For our home,” he told her raggedly and she nodded.

“And now?” she asked him, still kneeling in front of him and watched him shrug.

“I don’t want the title.” He laughed bitterly. “There is no throne, thank the fucking gods about that,” he muttered, and Sandor heartily agreed.

“But what about ruling?” Sam asked and Jon shrugged, unable to figure a way out of this mess. His eyes pleaded with hers to give him some answers, a direction. Anything but this hell of ruling a kingdom he didn’t want.

“I don’t want the North to be part of the Seven Kingdoms,” Sansa blurted out to her cousin, then she blushed when he arched an eyebrow at her. She waved a hand and prayed she didn’t cry, lest they not take her seriously. Then she saw the look of hope in his eyes and pressed on.

“What I mean is, the North should go back to the way it was before. Before the Targaryen’s came, and made everyone bend the knee to them. We should be our own independent Kingdom. Each region should,” she said and saw the shocked looks on Arya’s, Jon’s, Sam’s and Gendry’s faces. Sandor knew what she wanted, and she suspected her brother already could tell them the outcome of this meeting if he so desired, and Gilly didn’t really care.

“Seven independent Kingdoms,” Sam breathed, and Sansa could hear the excitement in his voice. “Who would get the Crownlands?” he asked, ever pragmatic.

Sansa shrugged. “I don’t know. And I don’t want to take away your throne, or your Kingdom Jon. It’s not that you wouldn’t be a good ruler; you would be. But I’d rather you be King of the North, than King of the Seven Kingdoms.” She watched as a small smile bloomed across his face, and he cupped her cheek and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

“Arya said you were the smartest person she knew,” he murmured, overcome by the elegance and simplicity of the idea. He didn’t give a fuck if he was King of anything, but he could do it. He could break the wheel that had oppressed so many, at least to a degree. He could give each Kingdom back their freedom. And he could stay in the North, free to roam and hunt and live. Free from the oppressive reality of court intrigue and politics. Hell, he could lobby hard for Sansa to be named Queen and come and go as he pleased. The more he thought about it, the better the idea became.

“It will bring peace and prosperity for lifetimes to Westeros,” Bran said in that voice that made Sandor shudder. He was proud of his little bird, speaking her mind and telling her cousin the King what was needed.

“Some regions lost their liege House,” Sam piped up.

Sansa hummed and ticked it off on her fingers. Sandor had never been prouder of her in his entire life.

“Jaime Lannister for the Westerlands, the Starks for the North. There is a new Prince in Dorne. Our Uncle holds the Riverlands and our cousin the Vale. Gendry was legitimatized and named Lord Protector of the Stormlands. And Yara will never give up the Iron Islands.”

Gendry paled at the thought of being a King. He didn’t even want to be a fucking Lord. He thought he might be sick, and Arya still hadn’t really looked at him since she’d come back. His stomach was in knots.

Sam swallowed hard. “And the Reach?” All eyes turned to him and he shook his head slightly. “Oh gods,” he muttered, and Jon let out a laugh. It sounded rusty and hard and ill-used, but for the first time in what felt like weeks, Jon Snow laughed.

“Would the Northern Lords follow a Targaryen?” Arya asked and immediately Jon sobered.

“If they don’t, they have their Queen,” Jon said and pointed to Sansa, who had risen from kneeling before him and had settled herself on Sandor’s lap. His large arm had come around his wife and a massive hand had settled over her prominent stomach.

“Fuck me,” Arya said, imagining the Hound as a King. “King Sandor.” She howled in laughter.

“Shut your mouth,” Sandor barked at her, but there was no bite. “Won’t be no fucking King. Just be the Queen’s husband and consort, that’s all,” he said but he might have blushed when he did.

“Still, that’s the best thing I’ve heard in weeks,” Arya said and burst out laughing at the look on his face.

Sansa leaned in and whispered something to him, and Arya saw him settle his massive frame. She shook her head at them. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to seeing them so in love and told them both to stop acting like that.

Sandor told her to fuck off while Sansa just arched a pretty eyebrow at her and continued to touch her husband.

Arya snorted at them again. At least she knew her sister would be protected always. That great lumbering ox wouldn’t let a fly land on her sister. She snorted when she thought of him being delicate with Sansa, but any fool could see that he was. She could only imagine how protective he would become when she gave him a child, and strange as it was, she knew that he’d make a good father.

Perhaps not quite like theirs had been, but Sandor would die before he’d let anything happen to either Sansa or their child. She could see that he wanted this, all of this. His wife, his child. These people.

Jon had watched as Sansa went and sat on the Hound’s lap. He still couldn’t quite reconcile the fact that she actually seemed to love him. Jon had worried when Dany had decreed that the two of them must wed, knowing bits and pieces of what Ramsey had done to her. He knew enough about Sandor to know he wouldn’t hurt Sansa, but he hadn’t quite known that they would care for each other so much.

Or that they reminded him a bit of Ned and Catelyn Stark. Not in looks necessarily, although Sansa did take after her Tully mother. No, it was almost as if they were a happier version of the two people who had raised Jon.

He wondered, not for the thousandth time why Ned hadn’t at least disclosed his true birth to his wife. It would have made his marriage that much stronger and easier. And Jon’s life better as well. Shaking his head from his own thoughts about things he couldn’t change, he focused on what Sansa was saying; as soon as Yara Greyjoy arrived they would have the meeting.

She also told them what happened to Lord Glover, and Jon’s respect for the pair of them grew. They were truly the best people to serve the North and should remain as the Lord and Lady of Winterfell no matter what came of this meeting. He knew at that moment he’d never be King of anything. It was all her.

Finally, Sandor stood, having talked enough, and said the wolves needed to hunt and run and he had traps to check.

Jon’s face lit at that prospect and he asked if he could join him. Sandor snorted at him. “You’re the fucking King, Snow,” he said and left the room to find Hope and Red Wind. Ghost always appeared when Sandor went into the woods.

Jon joined Sandor in the stables and took a moment to look at the fearsome beast that Sandor was having saddled.

“Stranger,” Sandor grunted when the King didn’t turn his head away. “Been with me for a long time,” Sandor rumbled, and Jon nodded.

He understood the affection between man and animal. And the horse was magnificent. He could see the easy bond and the love with which Sandor treated the massive horse.

Suddenly, the two direwolf pups darted into the stables and Jon watched as Sandor knelt down and ran his hands down their heads. Hope licked the man’s scarred face, and Jon saw the same look on Sandor’s face when he looked at Sansa directed to the wolf.

_Fuck me_, Jon thought, _he really does belong here_.

Something in Jon settled. He knew he could leave Winterfell in Sansa and Sandor’s competent hands. This man would do anything for his cousin.

That feeling was only reinforced when they rode through the woods and checked the traps that Sandor had set.

“She doesn’t mind you out here?” Jon asked.

Sandor grunted. “She’s smart, that cousin of yours. Won’t heap me with all the work in one day,” Sandor told Jon and saw the King smile. “She knows if she asks me in that pretty voice of hers to help, I won’t say no.”

Jon laughed then and it felt good, to be in the woods of his childhood, his wolf at his side and a man who would die for his sister keeping her safe as her husband.

“She’s always been clever,” Jon agreed and felt a bit more of the grief ebb away from him being back in the wild North.

“Fucking smart little bird,” Sandor muttered, but Jon could hear the pride in the man’s voice.

“And the babe?” Jon asked, arching an eyebrow at the big man. He saw Sandor shuffle in the saddle. “I’m no expert but she looks further along than a month.”

“Fucking hell,” Sandor rasped and shook his head slightly. He sighed and looked at the King, who had a solemn and severe look on his face. “It was all her doing,” Sandor began, and Jon gave him a look. “Well, not that part,” Sandor said, at a loss.

Then Jon saved him by grinning and laughing at him.

“If Sansa wants something, she’s going to get it, Clegane,” Jon told the man. “And clearly she wanted your child. She’s fucking relentless,” Jon muttered.

“Fuck if I know why,” Sandor said under his breath.

Jon didn’t answer, but he thought he knew why Sansa wanted this man and his child. Jon could hardly recall anyone looking at her with that much devotion and love. And he’d never hurt her, that was more than obvious. They had a painful and shared history and Jon thought that maybe he was the only man in the Seven Kingdoms that truly understood his cousin and what she needed to be safe and happy.

“Would you have come back? Even if you hadn’t been ordered to marry her?” Jon asked. It was the last question he had.

Sandor stopped Stranger and looked at Jon, grey eyes meeting grey.

“She’s all I’ve thought about for years. Can’t believe I fucking left in the first place. I know now I never should have. She’s worth more than any need for revenge,” Sandor told the King. “I would have crawled back here on broken legs even if all she had ever wanted was my sword to protect her. Never expected all of this. Never thought she could love someone like me. But she does, Jon Snow. Somehow, for some fucking reason, she does love me,” Sandor told the man and saw Jon nod.

They rode in companionable silence for a time, both men comfortable needing nothing more than the wolves and the woods.

“It’s Sansa name day soon,” Jon said suddenly and almost laughed when he saw the look of abject terror in Sandor’s eyes. “She’ll be twenty-three,” Jon continued, enjoying teasing his cousin’s husband.

“For fuck sakes,” Sandor muttered, “What the fuck am I supposed to do for that?”

The man was truly lost. Jon let him stew on that idea of a while, then took pity on him.

“The Bolton’s smashed the glass gardens,” Jon said conversationally, and Sandor grunted. “If someone were to order some glass from White Harbour so they could be rebuilt, surely that would be a grand present for the Lady of Winterfell.”

Sandor gave Jon Snow a look and nodded. He’d send the raven tomorrow. Sansa had told him that anything he needed for the castle he was to tell her but seeing as this was her cousin’s idea and a surprise, he figured he didn’t have to run it by her first.

The silence stretched, comfortable between the two men.

“Thanks,” Sandor finally grunted and sent the King a slight nod.

Jon nodded back.

“Welcome to House Stark, brother,” Jon said and gave him a grin, which Sandor returned.

Jon wasn’t really a brother, not anymore, but he’d always view Arya, Bran and Sansa as his siblings, and knew they felt the same. That’s what Dany had never understood; they were his family, and this was his home and he’d never wanted anything more than to live in peace. Jon knew exactly what he would propose tomorrow, and gods willing, he would get support. Because Jon Snow knew that he was home, and nothing would make him leave the North ever again. The long wolf died, but the pack survived. And Jon was finally back with his pack.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~****************************~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jaime and Brienne waited and watched the reunion between the Stark family. No matter how long Jaime lived, Jon Snow would always be Jon Snow. But as he looked at the King now, he could see Rhaegar in the man before him. How any of them had missed it was beyond him. And why any of them had believed that Ned Stark would actually cheat on his wife made him shake his head.

Still, he saw how broken the man was and having travelled a similar road himself, he did not envy the young King. Of course, when the direwolves made their way to him, there were tears and happy hugs and Jaime shook his head.

He’d found his wife in this dour place, but he was anxious for home. He would never get used to seeing such beasts roaming around freely.

He wanted things settled and he wanted to see the fucking sun and smell the sea.

Eventually Sansa hurried her cousin out of the yard and Jaime watched as the carriage carrying Tyrion pulled into the yard. His brother almost stumbled out and Jaime frowned. Since marrying Brienne, she was very vocal about how much she drank. He wouldn’t say she nagged him, but there would be hell to pay if he were in his cups each night. And really, what need did he have for that when he could be in her each night? There were much better ways to pass his evenings now.

When Tyrion finally stumbled to his feet, his eyes found Jaime’s and the Kingslayer could see the pure devastation there. Even Brienne knew that this was a broken man, and having dealt with a broken Lannister before, knew they needed to get him away from the crowd of people that had come to see the new arrivals.

“Brother,” Tyrion said, and his voice was tired, exhausted really. Jaime nodded and then patted him on the back. He wasn’t sure that Tyrion would appreciate a public display at this moment.

“My Lord, your chambers await,” Brienne said, and Tyrion watched as Jaime smiled at her.

She quirked her lips briefly at his brother and then turned and Tyrion had no choice but to follow them. They sniped and japed with each other as they walked down the hallway, and more than anything, Tyrion was glad that he hadn’t freed his brother that day when fire reigned from the sky. He had known the night that he’d spent drinking with Jaime and Brienne that his brother had found someone to love, someone that was not their dear sister. There had been a time when Tyrion had wanted that same things; a wife, a child, a keep. That dream was gone, and he was a shell of his former self. He had no idea how the country could begin to recover from what had happened just over a month ago. He tried to figure out where it all went wrong, and he knew it probably started with when he’d begun to believe that Daenerys Targaryen was different from all the other Kings and Queens that had ruled Westeros. He was such a fool. He knew who her father was; why he'd ever thought his madness wouldn’t extend to his daughter was beyond him. She had simply been better at hiding it. Or perhaps she’d simply snapped.

Either way, Jon Snow had done them all a favour when he’d finally driven his dagger into her heart, but he knew it had broken something in him as well. They were all such broken people. And now he was back here, in this frozen hellscape to answer for his crimes. Back where Lady Sansa, his lovely wife had told him and Jon they were stupid to trust her. Where Sansa had begged them to listen to her.

Tyrion barely realized they had made it back to his new rooms, when Jaime turned and told him to come next door for dinner. Tyrion nodded and let them leave, before knocking on the door a couple hours later. True to his word, Jaime and Brienne had set up a table in their room so they could eat in private. When he sat, he was joined by Jaime and his wife and Tyrion simply sat and stared at them. Here, away from prying eyes, he could see the love they had for each other. It was the simple gestures and how comfortable they were with one another.

“How old are you, Lady Brienne?” Tyrion asked suddenly and she startled.

“I’m twenty-nine, Lord Tyrion,” she replied and then gave him a questioning look.

“Good, plenty of time for children, sister,” he quipped and saw her face redden, but she didn’t deny the jape. He raised his eyebrows at that.

“Well done, brother,” Tyrion said and winked.

Jaime gave him a funny look.

“We don’t know anything, not yet, Tyrion,” he said, but his tone was hopeful.

Then Tyrion simply sat there in silence as they ate. He begged his excuses and wandered back to his rooms, happy for his brother, but still devastated by everything he had set in motion. No one could convince him otherwise; he had been a catalyst for the Dragon Queen coming back to Westeros. He had believed in her, championed her, encouraged her. And she had burned the world he knew to ashes. Tyrion sincerely hoped someone smarter than him had a plan on how to salvage something good out of this shit world. He was out of ideas and wouldn’t trust any of them that came to him anyways. His ideas had gotten a million people burnt to a crisp.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***************************~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three days later, representatives from all Seven, eight if you counted the Iron Islands, sat in the Great Hall of Winterfell, ready to debate what was to happen to the realm.

For the North there was Arya, Sansa, Sandor, Jon and Bran.

For the Westerlands there was Jaime, Brienne, Tyrion and Pod.

For the Reach, Samwell Tarly.

For Dorne the new Dornish Prince, named after his distant cousin, Dornan Martell.

For the Vale, Robin Arryn sat beside Lord Royce.

For the Stormlands, Gendry Baratheon.

For the Riverlands, Edmure Tully.   
For the Iron Islands, Yara Greyjoy.

Also present in the room were Ser Davos Seaworth, and Howland Reed. Collectively, these people represented the last of the great Houses, and the last of the realm as it had come to be known. There were minor noble houses that had survivors, but many had not contributed anything to either of the wars. These were the people that would be tasked with figuring out how to move forward.

Once Sansa welcomed everyone to Winterfell, Yara Greyjoy angrily interrupted. She wanted to know why Jon Snow as not dead, killed like the traitor he was. Sansa saw Jon stiffen and she narrowed her eyes on the Iron Born Queen.

“Where were your troops, Lady Greyjoy, during the sacking of Kings Landing?” Sansa asked, her voice ice cold.

Yara coloured. “He murdered the Queen he pledged himself too. A bastard, to steal the throne. He should hang.”

Sansa wanted to roll her eyes. The woman was relentless. Before she could speak Jon stood.

“Aye, I killed the Queen. I pledge myself to her. I fought for her. But I could not stand by and watch when she burned women, and children and innocents to the ground. When she spoke of enslaving everyone, not just in Westeros, but the world, under blood and fire. So, I stabbed her, and it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I didn’t do it for the fucking crown. I did it to save people. To ensure that nothing like that would ever happen again.”

Breathing heavily, Jon looked straight at Yara Greyjoy, and the Ironborn shrunk back in her seat. “Don’t call me murdered. She had it coming.”

A beat of uncomfortable silence rang the hall, before Sam coughed and stumbled to his feet. Grateful, Jon sat again, and Sansa clasped his hand, giving he a reassuring squeeze.

“He’s not a bastard, actually,” Sam said, confidently. Shocked looks turned to the Tarly Lord, who proceeded to explain Jon’s true parentage. “So, you see, he’s actually the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.”

Yara scoffed and the Dornish Prince looked skeptical, until both Bran and Howland Reed, along with the pages in the book from the Citadel confirmed the story.

“So, he’s the King? Aegon Targaryen?” Edmure said, confusion marring his voice.

Jon sighed and stood. “I don’t want it. I never wanted it. There’s no throne, the dragon saw to that.” He paused and looked at the room, then looked to Sansa who nodded.

“Years ago, before my ancestors came, before there were seven united Kingdoms, there were seven independent Kingdoms,” Jon said and saw the buzz of excitement go through the room. Tyrion gaped at him, knowing immediately what he was proposing. “There should be seven independent Kingdoms again,” he said and met each of their eyes.

“The North will never kneel to another southern ruler,” Jon continued. “And neither should any other house.”

Then he sat back down, a weight of immense proportions having been lifted from his shoulders.

“But how would we decided…. Anything?” Jaime said, bewildered. He’d never expected this.

Sansa spoke, “You’d be named King of the Westerlands, Ser Jaime. It would be your Kingdom to rule. I think we’ve seen enough conflict to last us decades, my Lords,” and Sansa saw the nods of approval.

Sandor reached for her hand and she squeezed it.

“But who would decide?” Edmure said, almost perplexed.

Sansa laughed. “The Great Houses are almost all represented Uncle. Many of your vassal houses will swear loyalty to a King. Or Queen.”

Talks continued for hours, but it was eventually decided to try. Dragonstone and the Crownlands would continue to belong to House Targaryen, even though Jon protested, but Sansa was resolute. He might have children one day, and they were his by right.

Finally, as night dimmed, and Sansa called for food and drink, it was decided, along with an agreement to meet within a year back at Winterfell for a formal council meeting with representatives from all eight Kingdoms. The Iron Islands would be recognized at their own, finally.

Jaime Lannister had no qualms with that. Jon would not be persuaded to leave the North again.

Sansa had no doubts that there would be uprisings; skirmishes and outright battles still to be fought, but this was the best possible solution for each region at the table. She could see the stress leave her cousin shoulders, as he settled in and let the debate wash over him and she was happy. The Northern Houses would still have to pledge their loyalty to him, to name him King in the North again, but he leaned over at one point, and whispered that she would always be the Lady of Winterfell and nothing would take that from her; not even him.

She thought she saw a small bit of mischief in his eyes, and wondered what he had planned, but she knew him to be honest when he said this would always be her home. No matter what, Sansa’s children would be the next Starks in Winterfell.

Jaime could hardly make sense of what had happened. As much as he never would have foreseen the Dragon Queen burning a city to the ground, never would he have imagined Jon Snow giving up the throne. He started to laugh once the four of them got back to his and Brienne’s rooms, and wiped away the tears.

“Fuck, how many people died to sit on that awful fucking chair, and now he just gives it all up,” Jaime said, stunned and giddy. These fucking Starks, he thought. He’d never understand them; they were too honorable by half. But he could see the lightness in Jon Snow when the meeting had ended, and he’d pressed a kiss to his cousin’s forehead. Jaime would bet money the man would disappear into the wilds of the North for some time, emerging in a few years to either take his place as the King of the North, or let Sansa rule with her fearsome husband by her side. Either way, knowing how close Sansa and Brienne were, Jaime knew that he’d never be done with the Starks or the North.

“To King Jaime and Queen Brienne,” Tyrion stated and raised a cup of red wine.

Brienne blanched and Jaime thought she might faint for a moment.

“Gods no,” she whispered, and he went to her side. He couldn’t help it, he cupped her cheek and forced her to look at him.

“Is it that bad of a thought?” he asked quietly, and he saw the shock in her eyes.

“Jaime,” she almost whimpered and he barked for Tyrion and Pod to leave the room, which they hurriedly did.

He somehow managed to get them both out of the armour and into bed, where he saw that his wife was almost trembling. He was worried; there were very few things in this world that scared Brienne and he didn’t quite know what to say.

“You have to talk to me, Brienne,” he told her softly. She had been getting better at letting him be gentle with her.

Her eyes filled with tears. “For fuck sakes Jaime, I’m barely fit to be your wife. I’m hardly a lady. And now you want me to be a Queen?” She barked out a bitter laugh and he felt his heart break for her.

“Brienne, no one will be a better one,” he told her, almost pleading with her to believe him.

She laughed at him then, cold and unpleasant. “I am the least Queenly woman you know,” she stated factually.

Jaime shrugged, unconcerned. She was his wife and she was most likely carrying his heir.

“Then don’t be like any Queen I know,” he told her and cupped her face and pressed a kiss to her mouth. “We are Lannister’s Brienne.”

She gave him a funny look. “What do you mean?”

Jaime smiled at her and stroked his thumb down her cheek. “Be a warrior Queen. Be the goddess you are Brienne, and fuck what anyone thinks of you. Or me.”

She laughed then, a bit shaky and smiled. “Fuck what anyone thinks.”

“That’s right, wife,” he told her and then started to press kisses along he neck, making her moan. “Be the person you were always meant to be. Make us better. Make us stronger. Help me restore honor and pride to House Lannister,” he said.

He knew in his heart that she was just what the Westerlands needed. Someone true and good and fucking noble after the mess his father, and his sister and his son had made of their House. With her by his side, they would once again be the House they were meant to be.

“Jaime,” Brienne moaned and laid back on the bed as her husband thrust inside her.

“You’re my wife, and a knight of House Lannister, and you’re the best of us, Brienne,” Jaime said, never taking his eyes off of her as he made love to her. “Be my Queen, Brienne,” he whispered, and she felt his words rush like strong wine through her blood as she writhed and moaned on him, screaming his name as she peaked and pulled him over. Collapsed on top of her, Jaime nuzzled her neck.

“Come home with me Brienne. Give me babies, be my wife,” he whispered to her. She caught his face in her hands and looked into his eyes.

“Yes Jaime,” she said and wiped the tears that tracked down his handsome face. Somehow, against all odds, they’d survived. Countless enemies, family, traitors and two great wars, and they had been given this chance. “Take me to Casterly Rock, my King,” Brienne told him, and Jaime kissed her hard and told her to prepare to leave.

They would not stay in the North for any longer than necessary. Jaime had everything he’d ever wanted; his freedom, his home and his love. And he wouldn’t waste another day mourning what was gone. With Brienne, his wife and his Queen by his side, Jaime Lannister would finally take his place as King of the Westerlands and Lord of Casterly Rock.


	11. Chapter 11

Winterfell

Slowly over the coming weeks, the nobles that had gathered from across the realm began to leave Winterfell. First to go was the new Prince from Dorne, and then Yara Greyjoy. The Iron Born and Dorne both had what they had wanted for so many years, and even though Sansa saw the distrust in Yara’s eyes, she was sure that the greater prize would appease them. For now.

Sansa had no doubts that war would come back to Westeros; it seemed inevitable. As Sandor had once told her, the world was built by killers. She only hoped that her skills and alliances would allow the North to remain strong and independent. She had to trust the alliances she had built; the bonds that had formed.

Both Sam and Gendry were beyond scared to leave; but both had reassurances from Sansa that she would help in whatever way possible, and it helped that their new Kingdoms were adjacent to one another. Ser Davos had pledged himself to Lord Gendry, and the look of relief on the man’s face would have been priceless, had the situation not been so serious.   
Gendry and Arya had settled things between them, but her sister would not be going with her smith. At least for Sam he had a wife and he knew how a castle ran.

Sansa held Lord Royce tight when it was his turn to leave and the man pressed a kiss to her forehead. He had saved them all when he’d answered her call to take back Winterfell, and he was the closest thing that Sansa had to a normal, loving father figure in years. He’d been by her side through so much, and his support of her had never wavered. She whispered a soft thank you into his chest and he patted her back.

“The Vale will always stand with House Stark, my lady, you need only ask,” he told her, and she saw the truth in his eyes.

Her cousin embraced her than and wished her well on her pregnancy before they took their leave.

Her Uncle Edmure was next, and she wished him well in the Riverlands, along with his wife Roslin who thankfully had survived. So much damage had been done there and he was anxious to get home to Riverrun. He also pledged his support to House Stark whenever they would need it, and Sansa nodded thankfully at him.

When it came time for Jaime and Brienne to part, Sansa was an utter and complete mess. Brienne had confirmed she was indeed pregnant, and Sansa broke down in to heaving sobs of happiness, so much so that Sandor had to pick her up lest she collapse on the floor. It was a two-month ride at the minimum between Casterly Rock and Winterfell, and the two women had survived so much together, that the thought of being parted was painful. Still, Brienne had confided in Sansa what Jaime had said to her, about being his warrior Queen, and Sansa could see the excitement and nerves in her friends face. No one deserved it more, in Sansa’s mind, than Brienne.

“You’ll make a wonderful Queen,” she told Brienne who snorted.

Sandor thanked the fucking gods that the women had a week to get their tears dealt with.

When Jaime asked what he wanted to do with Clegane Keep, Sandor shook his head. He supposed he now owned that piece of shit. His first instinct was to say level it to the ground, but Jaime was more pragmatic.

“I’ll make sure it is restored in case there is ever a Stark son that needs a keep; they will always be welcome in the Westerlands, and it is theirs, Sandor,” Jaime said a twinkle in his green eyes.

Sandor nodded at that statement and thanked him gruffly. Sandor had never seen the Kingslayer so excited to go home to Casterly Rock. Whether it was the fact that his father and sister were dead, and could no longer manipulate him, or the fact that his wife was pregnant, Jaime Lannister was a happy man these days. Tyrion was shell of his former self, although the prospect of going home held some appeal.

The morning Jaime, Brienne, Tyrion and Pod took their leave, Sandor seriously worried for Sansa’s health. The two women embraced after Sansa had thanked Jaime and Pod and Tyrion for fighting for the North against the army of the dead. Then she insisted on watching them ride away until they were gone from the horizon. Knowing she would be in need of privacy, Sandor gently steered her back to their rooms, where as he suspected, she broke down crying. She was inconsolable for a time, until Sandor told her they might visit one day; or have Jaime and Brienne back to Winterfell. She brightened at that prospect, and then wouldn’t let him leave their chambers for the rest of the afternoon. Sandor willingly submitted to his eager wife’s mouth and hands and tongue, and soon made her forget all about Brienne of fucking Tarth as it was his name she was screaming.

The next morning, cool but with a hint of Spring, the Starks met with the Northern Lords. The time had come to select the King of the North. Walking into the Great Hall, Sandor caught a look in Jon’s eye, and he knew at that moment that things would not go according to Sansa’s plan. Once everyone had been assembled, he stood in front of them.

“It was the greatest honor of my life, to be named your King,” he told them, his voice choked and breaking. “Everything I did, I did for the survival of the North.” Murmurs ran through the hall. “But I am not a true Stark, and the woman that is right to lead you, is sitting beside me.” Jon turned and smiled softly at Sansa whose eyes had widened. She shook her head.

“Jon, you’re our King. The King we choose,” she said, her quiet voice carried.

“Aye, cousin, I was. And as I said, it was the greatest honor of my life. I was meant to be King for a time. You are meant to be Queen for your lifetime, Sansa,” he told her. “Everything we’ve done, being back in Winterfell, taking it back from the Bolton’s, even asking the Dragon Queen for Northern Independence even though you risked your own life, is why you should be Queen. You’re married, to a Stark,” Jon winked at that, “and the first heir to House Stark is on its way. You’re the real Queen Sansa.”

Sandor squeezed his wife’s hand and watched her eyes tear.

“Jon,” she said, her voice a mixture of awe and excitement.

“To the Queen in the North,” Jon called out and Northern Houses jumped to their feet and took up the cheer.

“To the Queen in the North,” the replied until the chant rang through the halls. Sansa sat in awe of what had just happened. All she had ever wanted was her family and her home; safe and secure and now she had all of that.

Arya stayed long enough for her coronation; her dress a testament to all those who had shaped her, her crown a nod to her fearsome but loving husband who would rule by her side, never obscuring or stealing her power, only enabling her to be the ruler she had been born to be. More than anything, everyone could see that their Queen would give the realm it’s next heir.

When they place it on her head and raised their swords, Bran, Arya and Jon were on one side, while Sandor was on the other. The loudest voices proclaiming her Queen came from her cousin and her husband, and she thought it amazing that she had somehow ended up with two men who loved her and would die to see that she was safe. She thought her father would be especially happy about that.

A week after she had been named Queen, Arya finally took her leave. If Sansa had been a mess when Brienne left, it was nothing compared to when Arya rode away. She was headed to White Harbour and the West of Westeros. She promised to send ravens. And she promised to come home. Sansa knew she couldn’t keep her here, but she ached with her leaving again. After so many years, there was finally no discord between them.

Bran had become more like Bran, and Sansa thought it helped that Meera Reed was back at Winterfell, and planning on staying. Red Wind also made Bran seem less like the three-eyed-raven, although he was never not that as he tried to tell her one evening. Still, it made Sansa happy to have one person staying.

As for Jon, he roamed the North. He had explained to Sansa and Sandor one night that he just didn’t know where his place was. He wanted to go North to visit Tormund and the wildlings, but he promised he would be back. Sansa could see the weariness in him and let him go.

When he rode back into Winterfell months later, Sansa was weeks away from giving birth and he promised he would stay. When she asked for how long, he told her indefinitely. She could see the tension had left him, and he looked rested and well. And he seemed delighted to be named as Master at Arms, since Sandor had taken over most of her duties the further she’d gotten into her pregnancy. Sansa knew that Bear Island, Last Hearth, and the Dreadfort all needed a Lord, but Jon waved that idea away and simply asked if he could stay here and Sansa sobbed into his arm that he never had to leave.

When her labour finally began, Sandor was a wreck, and both were thankful for Jon’s cool head. They had a new Maester sent from the Citadel, as well as a midwife from Wintertown. As she laboured through the birth of her first child, Sandor never left her side. He scandalized the Maester by crawling into bed with her at one point so he could support her, and she was glad he did, for when his first son was born, she thought he might faint. That was until the midwife told her that there was another babe to be born and she saw him blanch at the thought.

“Twins?” he gulped, and the midwife nodded, and he looked at Sansa. “Little bird?” he asked.

She shrugged. Everyone had just assumed that given his size, their child would be large. She had never expected two. And then there was nothing to think about, as her next child wanted to be borne.

Later, Sansa and Sandor sat in awe as they cuddled their sons. Twin boys, Robb and Rickon Stark had been born to the Queen of the North. When Jon and Bran came to meet them, Sansa could see the happiness on both of their faces.

“They’re amazing, Sansa,” Jon said with reverence. Both had black hair but bright blue eyes. Even for twins they were a good size and Sansa gazed at them with love. She never thought a day would come when she would have everything she wanted.

Life settled into a pattern at Winterfell; Sansa and Sandor were beloved by the people in the North and worked tirelessly to restore it, along with Jon’s help. He’d taken on the role of travelling throughout the North and beyond. Eventually, years later, on one of his trips he came home with Kyra Karstark, a surviving cousin of Alys and asked Sansa if she could stay for a time. Sansa willingly agreed, happy to see that her cousin was finally healed enough to try again.

A year later they married under the Godswood and soon left to be Lord and Lady of Karhold, although Jon had begun to use his true last name. He’d confessed to Sansa that he didn’t want his children to be born Snow’s; he didn’t want that shame for them, and he’d come to forgive everyone involved in his birth. Ned Stark for hiding his identify, his mother for running away with Rhaegar, and even his father for abandoning his first wife to marry his mother. It took years, but Jon had learned to calm the rage inside of him; being in the North helped, and not being King of anything was a balm to his soul. Sansa had been overjoyed with happiness for him.

Arya wrote and would show up back at Winterfell at the oddest times, and each time Sansa would beg her to stay before she left again. Sansa worried for her sister, but Sandor constantly reminded her that her that she was more than capable of taking care of herself, and that anyone who got in her way was more than likely to get hurt than the other way around.

The years passed and as Sansa had known, skirmishes and even outright war broke out from time to time, but nothing like what had happened all those years ago in when Sansa had been a child.

The twin boys grew fast and strong, and as predicted, were fearsome fighters, large and intimidating like their father. Sandor was never prouder than when training with his sons, moulding them to be good men. They loved their mother and father fiercely.

Sandor and Sansa filled Winterfell with Starks; after Robb and Rickon came Catelyn whom everyone called Catey, and then two more twin boys, although these ones were identical. Sansa insisted they name them Ned and Theon. And then nothing for years. Sandor knew that Sansa had wanted one more child; she’d had three pregnancies and five children, and it had been easy for her. He tried not to feel like it was his fault; after all, he was so much older than her. And then finally one day, after they had resigned themselves to no more Starks, Sansa had one more daughter, a sweet child whom Sandor had shyly asked if they could name Elenore after his dead sister. Sansa had of course said yes. Everyone called her Ella, and Sandor literally doted on his littlest daughter, more protective of her than any of their other children.

All their children loved their father, even though he had worried that his face would make them think he was a monster. If anything, it was the exact opposite, and of everything he did at Winterfell, it was raising his children that he was most proud of. His daughters simply adored him, and Sansa swore Catey didn’t walk until she was a year and a half because Sandor always had her in his arms. Of course, she was a miniature Sansa, and he couldn’t help himself. She was a fierce child and as Sansa predicted, Sandor had a play sword in her hands by the time she could walk. Each day her chubby legs would pump to keep up with her brothers, and Sandor never denied her anything; including training in the yard.

Ella looked just like him, with dark hair and grey eyes, but was much more like Sansa in temperament and being the baby, clung to Sandor whenever she could get away with it. Which was often. She had no interest in learning to fight, and it was the only battle that Sandor had with her, pleading that she at least learn to use a dagger. His wife smiled and laughed at him when she stubbornly stuck out her bottom lip and wouldn’t even pick it up.

“Ella, darling,” he practically begged her and she pouted and clung to him.

“No Papa. That’s not what a lady does.”

He almost rolled his eyes in frustration, but then she pressed a kiss to his scarred cheek and he felt the rush of love for her. For all of his pups.

“She gets her stubbornness from you,” he muttered, shooting a glare at Sansa, and Sansa gaped at him, before she laughed, watching as he tickled Ella and she giggled with glee.

_The nerve of the man,_she thought. She had learned that Sandor was content to let her lead in almost all areas of their life; but he was an active parent and dedicated father, and the only time they ever fought was over their children. He swore he’d keep them all at Winterfell until they were well into their twenties, and Sansa laughed at him.

Eighteen years after the council that had decided the fate of Westeros, Sansa and Sandor stood in the yard, ready to welcome their guests for the feast and tournament they had prepared.

Sandor had been like a wolf in a trap, muttering about the Kingslayer and Brienne of fucking Tarth. Of course, that led to him having to disclose the much-edited story of him and Brienne’s legendary fight, which his boys japed him about for weeks until he finally was forced to beat them into the mud one day in training to prove that he was still the top wolf in the Keep. Sansa shook her head at their antics. Her husband had always been a fearsome man, and even their boys had awe in their eyes for him.

Jon and Kyra had already arrived with their two sons and daughter. Jon’s oldest boy was twelve, but he was excited about the tournament. They had been frequent visitors over the years, and Jon’s son was in awe of Sandor, while his second son tried to keep up, but at only ten often fell behind. His daughter, Lyanna, was only four, and clung to her father most days, having decided he was her favorite person in the entire world. Jon willingly held her. He’d never thought he’d ever have a family, and he was a happy man these days.

Sansa loved seeing Jon and Kyra, but she was most excited to see Brienne. Her dear friend and loyal sworn shield, who would be arriving any moment with her husband and children. Despite their best intentions, Sansa had not seen Brienne since the day she had ridden from Winterfell, eighteen years ago, and she was excited.

Sandor watched his wife in amusement. He was nearing his sixtieth name day and couldn’t imagine that two halves of a man’s life could be so different. The first filled with so much pain, anger, fighting and death, and the second filled with happiness, family and security.

His wife, and it still shook him that Sansa was his wife, never failed to amaze him with her love and devotion to him and their children and the North. His sons and daughters loved him, despite his ruined face, and he was proud of the people they were.

Jon Snow and he were as close as two brothers could be, both trying to find their way in this new Westeros and met each year to hunt and trap and provide for their respective keeps. Each man returned home happy to see his wife and children, with the bond between them as strong as ever. And despite the small battles they heard about to the south, no one dared come North, not with men like Sandor Stark and Jon Snow and Tormund Giantsbane guarding its borders.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the mud if you keep that pacing up, Little Bird,” Sandor muttered to her and saw his oldest sons smirk. It was a constant amusement to them how much their fearsome father loved their mother. They’d long grown used to them; they constantly touched each other, and more than once their children had walked in on their parents in a passionate embrace. Sansa only laughed and told them that she had waited a long time for their father, and she wasn’t ever letting a day go by when she didn’t show him how much she loved him.

They rolled their eyes, but they were secretly glad their parents loved each other so much. When they had all be young one of their favorite memories had been to crawl into their parents large bed, and all cuddle up like a pile of pups against their parents warm bodies. Ella still did it, although the rest were too old now.

Of course, Hope and Red Wind had ensured that each of their five children now had their own direwolves. Sansa’s beloved wolf was still alive, though old and prone to sleeping the days away in front of the fire. Everyone knew that the wolves were otherworldly, so the long age surprised no one, and delighted Sansa that Hope was still with her. Ghost was still alive as well, although he no longer hunted and ranged with Jon. Sandor had no idea what he’d do when the day came, and Hope passed on. Sansa would be a mess. And so would he.

Still, they’d grown up with her as the Queen of the North, and no one, not even Sansa’s large and imposing sons, would dare mock Sandor for his love for his wife. Their parents were everything to them, and both boys would die before letting anyone hurt the Queen or make fun of their father. He had shown them every day that a man could respect a woman’s power without it making him weak, and both boys would sooner cut off their own hand than face the wrath of their parents if they ever acted in a way that would harm someone that was innocent.

_ Casterly Rock _

It took two months to travel from Winterfell to Casterly Rock, with his pregnant wife, his despondent brother and the cheerful Podrick Payne. Jaime was at a loss of what to do for Tyrion, knowing that his guilt and shame were heavy. He hoped that being back home at the Rock would help to heal him. Everywhere they road they saw the devastation across the land, and Jaime knew much of it could be laid at House Lannister’s feet. His father and his sister and their single-minded devotion to ruling had scarred the land and the people. Still, when they crossed into the Westerlands, they saw signs of life. House Lannister had taken tremendous losses in the battle of Kings Landing; even soldiers that had surrendered had been slaughtered. Somehow, against all odds, word had come that their Uncle Kevan had survived, and waited at the Rock with his wife Dorna for them.

When they finally came to the Rock, Jaime could smell the sea first and his face broke into a wide grin. He had missed his home, and he couldn’t wait for Brienne’s reaction. He knew she was unlike most women, but even he knew she would be impressed by his family home. It was a keep that had never been breached, (_Jaime didn’t count abandoning it to the Unsullied; that had been a well-planned strategic move_) and the knight in her would appreciated it’s history and lore.

She gasped when she first caught sight of it, and before the doubts could come from her lips, he smiled at her. “Welcome home, my Queen,” he almost purred and wiggled his eyebrows at her. She blushed and then tried not to let her jaw drop. It was overwhelming, but at least Jaime was by her side. She’d been feeling tired and slightly ill during their entire journey and knew that baby was making her feel that way. Her husband had been especially attentive to her needs, and even though she wanted to protest that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, Jaime had explained that he wanted to be there for her. That it was her that would do all the work to bring their child into the world, and the least she could do was allow him to pamper her. She snorted at her sweet-talking husband but let him hover and cater to her. She had to admit; it was nice.

She was deeply worried about her good brother. In her opinion, Tyrion was a barrel of wine away from simply diving in and never surfacing. It came as a relief when the great Castle came into view, for even she could see the slight spark of happiness and joy that came to Tyrion’s eyes. Through the long nights and days spent with each other, the brothers, through Jaime’s coaxing, had told tales about growing up in the castle, and she could tell both were excited to be home.

Word had come from his Uncle that a mine previous through dry of gold was not, a new vein having been found. It took an immense amount of pressure of Jaime, and he would be careful with his family’s treasure unlike his sister and his son.

Kevan and Dorna waited in the yard to greet them, and any fears that Brienne had that she would be found lacking were quickly assuaged by the warn reception she received. Jaime and Tyrion’s Aunt had also survived the wars, and Genna Lannister was a beautiful and large woman who spoke her mind. After a few days, she declared she liked Brienne more than she ever had that vile witch Cersei and that she’d make a wonderful Queen. Brienne knew it was the pregnancy, but she was almost weepy with the endorsement.

As he had dreamed, Jaime wasted no time in situating himself and Brienne in the Lords chambers; some of his fondest memories were finding his parents in their rooms, happy and in love. Tywin Lannister was a different man around his wife, and Jaime wanted their child to know how much their parents loved them and each other. He would not repeat the mistakes of his parents or his sister. The first night they climbed into the large bed, Jaime left the doors to the large terrace open and the sea air, soft and warm and fragrant floated through the night. It was warm in the Westerlands and the bed was filled with lines and blankets instead of heavy furs. Jaime worshiped his wife’s body as she moaned and shouted his name, naked and glorious and not huddled beneath the covers trying to keep warm.

“Fuck Brienne, I’ve dreamed of this right here,” he muttered, cradling her slightly swelled stomach. He had just made her peak on his tongue, then used his fingers to bring her up again. He was in awe of her body and couldn’t wait to meet his child. She simply grinned at him, undone by how much he meant to her. Then he did that thing with his eyebrows and she felt a gush of wet leave her. He would be the death of her she was sure; not in battle but in bed.

“Can I love you now, my Queen?” he asked, and she pulled his face to hers and smashed her mouth against his. He chuckled at her, before he slammed himself home and she moaned his name again. He thrust into her until she came apart and screamed how much she loved him and grunted and finished deep inside her.

“Fuck, I love you,” he whispered to her, collapsed on top of her.

A month later, to no one’s surprise, they were crowned the King and Queen of the Westerlands.

Almost like clockwork one Bronn of the Blackwater appeared. Though he didn’t have his crossbow with him, he still demanded his castle as payment. Even though Jaime chaffed at the thought of giving the sellsword anything, Tyrion came out of his cups long enough to propose one of the abandoned castles that had no vassal lords to occupy it. Satisfied, Bronn situated himself a day ride away, until years later a jealous husband ran him threw while he was fucking said husband’s wife. Jaime lost no sleep over his loss.

Jaime was beside himself with joy, even though Tyrion sunk deeper into depression. Jaime was seriously worried about him, and nothing anyone did made a difference. Finally, it was Brienne that became fed up with his moods and dumped a bucket of ice-cold water on his head.

Eight months pregnant and as fearsome as ever, she dragged him from his soaking wet bed.

“This stops. Now, Lord Tyrion,” she said to him. Jaime had followed her when she had gotten that look in her eye.

Tyrion sputtered and protested by Brienne would not be moved. “You didn’t burn down the Kingdom. She did.”

“But I brought her here,” he protested, and Brienne nodded.

“You did. You supported her and you vouched for her and you pledged yourself to her. And she broke that trust. With you and with Jon Snow and with every person she swore she was there to protect. You weren’t on that fucking dragon. She was,” Brienne was shouting at him by then.

Kevan and Genna had come to see what the commotion was about, and Genna started clapping.

“About fucking time,” she barked out a laugh.

After that things were better; not good but better.

A month later, when Brienne gave the Westerlands its first new Lannister, a baby girl named Joanna with a shock of blond hair, even Tyrion remained sober long enough to meet her.

As he had with Cersei, Jaime stayed with Brienne throughout her labour; coaching her and helping as much as he could. When his daughter was finally born, he was unashamed of the tears that streamed down his face. She was here and she was his and all of Westeros would know that this was his daughter.

Before long, twin boys followed, and quick on their heels one more sweet daughter.

Brienne was a wonderful mother, as Jaime knew she would be, and just the Queen the West needed. She was honorable and fair to a fault and demanded nothing less of everyone she came into contact with.

Kevan and Dorna adored her, and a few years after they had been back, Tyrion met a sweet woman in Lannisport that he spent more and more time with. Jaime couldn’t care less that she was nearing thirty and already had two children, her husband having died in Kings Landing when Dany had attacked. She made Tyrion happy, and they married quietly and welcomed two children of their own. His brother was never quite the same as before the burning of the Capital, but Jaime supposed none of them were.

_ Winterfell _

And now, eighteen years later after he had left the North, he rode through the gates of Winterfell again with his wife and his children. Brienne had insisted they all come. Joanna, beautiful, tall and regal, who had just turned eighteen and who could beat any man with a sword or a bow. She was his pride and joy; his redemption and he doted on her. The twins Daven and Damon were sweet and loyal boys, who worshiped their parents and trained hard to be as good with a sword at their oldest sister. Jaime’s youngest daughter, Lanna was a sweet child who was as unlike her sibling as possible. She was only interested in being a lady, and Brienne was constantly at a loss with her, despite how much she loved her. She thanked the gods for Genna and Dorna.

Standing in yard at Winterfell, as was their custom, were the Starks and Targaryen’s.

Jaime startled at how Sansa Stark looked like she hadn’t aged a day, her red hair and wolf crown adorning her beautiful head. Standing beside her with his custom scowl was her loyal and loving husband Sandor.

Jaime took a closer look at the man and could see that he might have mellowed. Slightly. He shook his head at that, glad that some things never changed. Lined up, as if for inspection, were four of the largest boys Jaime had ever seen. He knew the oldest, Robb and Rickon were eighteen and at least as tall and as broad as their father. But neither held his custom scowl. They were handsome men and had an easy look about them. Jaime supposed it came from having two loving parents and a peaceful realm in which to grow up in.

Next to them was a beautiful girl of sixteen, Catelyn Stark, Sansa’s first daughter who looked like her mother, but dressed like her Aunt Arya and had a sword and a dagger stepped to her side. Jaime had no doubts she knew exactly how to use said dagger.

Two more boys, fourteen and showing every indication they would be as large and as fearsome as their father and two oldest brothers, were next. Jaime had no doubt that Sandor was pleased with his four sons.

Last was a dark haired child of five, clinging to Sandor. When Jaime smiled at her, she buried her face in his neck and Sandor shushed her and muttered about the Kingslayer. Jaime couldn’t help it; he threw back his head and laughed.

“Hound,” Jaime said.

Sandor couldn’t help it. There was so much affection in the man’s voice. He grinned at him. “She’s shy. Just five.”

Jaime nodded. He looked over to the former King.

Jon was standing beside a lovely woman with red hair, his two dark haired sons beside him and a darling daughter also in his arms. It appeared that him and Sansa had their children around the same time.

Jaime couldn’t held it. He embraced Sansa and then clasped Sandor by the hand before moving on to Jon.

It had been his willingness to change how things were done in Westeros that had allowed Jaime to become a King in his own right.

Brienne had also dismounted, and the two women clung to each other, having gone much too long without seeing each other.

Robb was stunned by the woman who next dismounted. She was almost as tall as he was, and he could see that she was well muscled and competent. He felt his heart fall and trip, and his brother elbowed him in the ribs when he stuttered out a greeting, rolling his eyes at him. Ric never worried about the ladies; he was carefree and much less tightly wound than his older brother, but he supposed that was because he didn’t have to worry about being King. He might be Lord of a Bear Island or Last Hearth one day, but he thanked the Gods he would never have to be a King of the whole North.

Sansa turned and ushered everyone into Winterfell, eager to get them settled and happy after their long journey.

The next day, in the yard, Sandor’s boys were sparing when they were joined by Jon’s and Jaime’s. Somehow, there were five of them that were all the same age, fourteen, and one that was twelve. The two oldest, Robb and Rickon trained with the men now, and Sandor growled out a warning for them not to be fucking cunts to the younger ones.

Once again, Jaime threw his head back and laughed, and then watched in amusement as his wife and daughter suddenly emerged. Jaime and Sandor were both too old to do much real sparing anymore, but Jon and Brienne were younger than them by at least a decade and could still hold their own.

When Robb ended up against Joanna, he remembered his father’s story about the only person who’d ever beaten him and gave her the respect he knew she deserved. He saw something light in her eyes when he didn’t question her place here with them, and soon the entire yard was watching them spare. He knew he had her, but he didn’t want it to end, he was so enraptured by her strength and speed. Standing off to the side, Sandor was muttering under his breath, and Jaime knew that look in the boy’s eye. It was how he’d looked at Brienne each time she’d beaten him, and he knew in that moment that this was a man that was worthy of his eldest child. When Robb lost his concentration for a moment, she threw him into the mud, and everyone saw the look of awe on his face.

“Fuck me, you’re magnificent,” he said, and Jaime clapped Sandor on the back, howling in laughter. He still looked at his wife that way.

“Fucking hell, Kingslayer,” Sandor groaned, but was secretly pleased.

Jaime and Brienne’s daughter was a worthy woman for his son.

He watched as Joanna offered her hand to Robb and saw his son didn’t let it go once, he came to his feet. He kept her by his side for the rest of the tournament, much to everyone’s delight.

Later that night, when everyone had been tucked in to bed, after all the ale had been drank, food had been eaten and cheers and toasts rang through the hall, Sandor gathered his wife close. Hope was snoring on her mat in front of the fire and Sansa snuggled into her husband.

“Happy, Little Bird?” he asked. He knew he had missed her friend and that she was happiest when everyone was under her roof. He half expected Arya to show up at some point during the tournament, and that would make his wife even more pleased.

“I am,” she said and sighed, loving the comfort she found in his arms. She could hardly imagine the horror that they had endured so many years ago, and she was grateful every day that Sandor had come back to her. She couldn’t imagine anyone else at her side.

“I love you, Sandor,” she said softly.

“I love you, Little Bird,” and then Sandor tightened his grip on her, thanking for the millionth time, whatever gods had seen to give him this life, this woman, and these children. He knew he didn’t deserve it, but he was thankful for it all the same and never let a day pass without letting his wife, the Queen in the North, know how much he loved her. Then he felt his wife relax and knew she’d slipped into sleep, and he closed his eyes and followed her there, knowing they’d made a better world for their children than the shit one that had been given to them.


End file.
